Black Moon
by occhi bella
Summary: Ichabod always thought that there were murders in New York City without benefit of ghouls and goblins. He was wrong. Chapter 10 up 11-27-11.
1. Chapter 1

**_April, 1804_**

In early March the High Constable put Ichabod to work on the graveyard shift again.

Until the time when he returned to New York City with Katrina and Young Masbath the shift he worked was of no consequence to him. When he first arrived in the city it felt more ominous to him at night, for it seemed that people were more apt to engage in clandestine and dangerous criminal activities in the cover of the dark. But after working as a constable for only a short time Ichabod came to know that terrible things happened in this city at any time of the day; they were not limited to the night time. He returned home daily to a nearly empty house anyway, the only other living souls there being Anna, his live-in maid, and Little Red, the cardinal that he'd taken in when it was injured and who lived at the time in a cage in his attic laboratory. Whether he worked during the day or evening and slept over night – or worked over night and slept during the day – made little difference to him.

Now he had a wife, a young daughter and an adopted teenage boy. It would be a little more complicated but in the month since his shift had been changed he'd already managed to make some adjustments in his routine. In the mornings he played with little Elizabeth for a short time before going to sleep after the long night of work. In the evenings he ate supper with everyone. He took turns with Katrina putting Elizabeth down for bed each night and reading to her. Then husband and wife would spend a couple of stolen hours together before he had to set off for his duty shift.

At least his beloved wife and daughter weren't in the house alone during the night; Stephen Masbath was nearly as protective of them as Ichabod was and he trusted that the young man would look after them, just as he had looked after Katrina when they were in Sleepy Hollow.

Ichabod sighed and walked the streets of the area to which he was assigned, his lantern swinging gently with every step he took. Despite the fact that it was spring already it was fairly chilly on this early April night. This shift was the least desirable for most of the men and the High Constable was aware of that, which is why, Ichabod knew, he'd reassigned him to it. His superior didn't like him and considered him a nuisance. No doubt he wanted him out of his hair. But Ichabod had made up his mind that he would use the quietude of these hours of the night to his advantage. In the event that he discovered another victim during this shift, or on any other night, he intended to at least superficially conduct a thorough examination of the corpses. With his superiors gone for the night, not returning to the Watch House until the morning, he would be on his own for the most part and free to do as he liked.

In the past two months they had discovered at least one fresh corpse early in the morning each and every day. The deaths were not confined to one area of the city, turning up in the north, south, east and west side neighborhoods. Bodies had been found in alleys, in the rivers, in the parks, outdoors and indoors; in several cases family members discovered that their loved ones had passed during the night in their beds. Nor were the deaths confined to any one class. The homeless, the poor, working men and women, landed rich; no one appeared to be exempt from the odd plague that was sweeping the city.

At first no connection was made between the various deaths. Then they began to notice that many of the deceased were young, healthy citizens who lived well, their deaths sudden and inexplicable – and freakish. It was then that the authorities began to look more closely at how they might be related.

Yellow fever had struck the people of New York twice in the last few years, and both the court and the upper echelons of the constabulary immediately attributed this new wave of deaths to yet another yellow fever epidemic. The constabulary was working overtime once again, not only as patrolmen but as public health officials charged with disposing of the bodies in a manner that would at least slow the spread of the disease.

Ichabod, however, was never convinced that yellow fever was the cause of these deaths. He suspected that something was amiss.

"You're a physician now, Constable Crane?" the High Constable demanded sarcastically on the morning he finally presented his case, after his shift had ended.

"I've worked with the constabulary during two yellow fever epidemics," Ichabod insisted, standing his ground. "I'm not claiming to be a physician, nor am I an expert on the symptoms of yellow fever. But I do know that in the past the bodies of the yellow fever victims were jaundiced. Not one of the corpses that I've discovered these past weeks had any signs of jaundice."

"Perhaps those deaths were caused by something else. Or perhaps the yellow fever killed them before it reached that stage where their skin yellowed. There are people dying every day in this city, from all sorts of illnesses, from starvation. Neither you nor the other constables found any blood on the bodies or at the individual scenes."

"No, not a trace of it," Ichabod admitted. "But that may be another hint that this is not yellow fever…"

"What makes you believe that murder is involved?" the High Constable interrupted before he had a chance to finish his thought.

"I don't believe that there is definite evidence for murder yet either," Ichabod stated firmly. "But I believe that it is an avenue that ought to be pursued and investigated, along with several others. Perhaps it is a new disease that we've never seen before. Why am I the only one who sees that this should at the very least be researched? Or perhaps it _is_ murder and the bodies were moved from the scene of the crime long after the wounds had stopped bleeding. If I could only examine…"

"Constable Crane," the Burgomaster cut in sternly. "I'm growing tired of having this argument with you, as is the High Constable. There is no reason for you to start cutting up corpses."

"But…" he began, but his superior immediately interrupted him.

"You are not originally from New York, Constable."

"No," he replied, taken aback and bewildered by the question. He wondered in what direction the man was taking the conversation.

"And no doubt you arrived here after the doctors' riots."

"Doctors' riots?" Ichabod echoed blankly.

"Several years ago there were riots outside of the medical school. Some…citizens…of the city decided to spy on the medical students there one evening and discovered that they were dissecting corpses, corpses that had been dug up from the cemetery. I'm certain that these…post-mortem examinations, as you call them, were part of their studies. But word got round immediately and rioting ensued for the next twenty-four hours. We had to call in the military. I will not have a situation like that on my hands again simply because you imagine yourself a great scientist and you're seeking to indulge some fantasy…"

Ichabod felt his cheeks growing hot with anger and humiliation, and he cut off his superior indignantly. "I am not seeking to indulge any fantasy, nor is this some sort of vanity project…I merely believe that there is something to be learned from these examinations. At the very least we could possibly rule out certain things. During the last two epidemics doctors examined many of the early victims and confirmed that it was yellow fever. There have been no confirmed cases this time…"

"The answer is no, Constable Crane."

"If you will not allow me to examine the bodies, will you at least allow a physician to do so? I believe that it would be helpful if we had confirmation by experts as to whether this is yellow fever or not. The public is already in a frenzy of fear of this disease, and perhaps it is needless."

"Doctors in this city are overwhelmed with a sick public, Constable Crane, and their attention for now must remain focused on those that are still living. Not to mention that if word gets round that a corpse is being cut up, even by a physician…the doctors' riots are proof that the citizens do not care whether it is done in the name of medicine…however, if you can find a physician who is willing I'll then take it under consideration."

Ichabod was dismissed peremptorily and he left the court feeling frustrated and discouraged.

That was two weeks ago. Unsurprisingly he had not found a physician willing to perform a post-mortem exam, and more victims were being claimed every day since then.

Ichabod pondered the facts as of now. The one thing that every victim had in common was there was not a drop of blood on them, or at the scenes where they died. But he just didn't believe that these deaths were related to yellow fever. There had been no confirmed cases. And the lack of blood in every case seemed to indicate that something else might have been causing these deaths. Yellow fever was a haemorrhagic disease; during the advanced stage victims often bled from their eyes, nose, mouth and gums, even their stomachs. The ramifications of these symptoms were that there should have been some blood on the victims' bodies or clothing, if not at the scene.

Of course there was no way he would ever convince his superiors to allow him or anyone else to engage in any meaningful fact finding. He would have to take matters into his own hands when the opportunity arose.

**oooOooo**

It was three-thirty in the morning when Ichabod stumbled across the latest victim, in a tiny alley off of Wall Street, near the eastside wharf. He spotted the person in a sitting position on the ground, about halfway down the dark and deserted narrow street, leaning against the brick wall of one of the warehouses along the pier. Assuming at first that it was a drunkard he walked over, discovering when he drew nearer that it was a woman. Kneeling beside her and setting his lantern down on the ground he peered at her, noticing immediately that her eyes were open and unblinking, her skin ghostly pale. As a matter of routine he placed two fingers against the carotid artery in her neck, confirming that there was no pulse.

Beneath his fingers were two small palpable bumps. He withdrew his hand, picked up his lantern and held it close to that side of the woman's face while he studied her neck. On the left side were two small perfectly round, identical holes, probably not even a quarter of an inch in diameter, set in the skin about an inch or so apart from each other. The edges of skin around the curious wounds were slightly raised and pinkish. There wasn't a hint of a bluish tint to her yet, and he found when his fingers pressed against the skin of her neck again that some warmth lingered, meaning that she had probably died not long before he found her.

Ichabod opened his overcoat and withdrew his ledger, pen and ink. He opened the book to a fresh page, wrote the date and time at the top and began to write his observations of the body, starting with the location and exact position of the body, and the general attributes. She was a young woman, most likely in her twenties, with blue eyes and disheveled long blonde hair. Noting her low-cut dress and the neighborhood he deduced that she was probably a prostitute. The east side, near the river, was a convenient area for New York's brothels to spring up as there were many taverns and it was here that the sailors from the old world and the Caribbean islands arrived.

He made detailed notes about the two odd holes in the woman's neck and the edge of skin surrounding it, specifically highlighting the distinct lack of blood on her person or clothing, or anywhere around her, particularly the peculiar lack of blood around the odd wounds. Knowing the size of his fingers he used them as a guide to estimate the distance between the two holes and the diameter of the holes then wrote the measurements down.

Setting his ledger and pen aside momentarily he then lifted his lantern again and began a thorough external examination of the woman's body. Other than some bruising on her arms – and the odd wounds on her neck – she appeared to have sustained no other injuries. He was about to set the lantern down so he could make additional notations in his ledger but something made him stop and look into the woman's face. Her lips were slightly parted and Ichabod shivered as he took in the odd expression that was frozen on the woman's face the moment she died. It appeared to be a combination of fear, shock and ecstasy.

His hands were shaking as he set the lantern down and took up his ledger again to make further notations. When he was done he read over his notes to be certain he hadn't overlooked anything. Then he put his ledger, pen and ink away, took up his lantern and began to ring his bell as loudly as he could.

After a few minutes he heard footsteps running toward his position and voices calling out. He hollered loudly to draw their attention and a few moments later another constable appeared at the northern end of the alley.

"I found another one," Ichabod informed Constable James when he approached.

**oooOooo**

Katrina stood at the large circular window on the top floor of the white four-storey house, pushing it open and anxiously peering out for the tenth time in the past half hour. Numerous carriages drove back and forth down along William Street and several pedestrians passed by, but there was no sign of her husband yet.

Usually Ichabod was home from his shift by nine o'clock in the morning, ten o'clock the latest if he appeared in court before the Burgomaster. It was already eleven o'clock and she hadn't a message from him or even a word about him.

Ever since Ichabod's superiors had forced him to work the night shift last month she hadn't had a good night's sleep. She tossed and turned for hours every night before finally drifting into fitful sleep, only to wake shortly thereafter, jolted into wakefulness by some terrifying vision that remained just at the edge of her consciousness. Then she would sit up, her heart beating, and try to remember in vain what she had dreamed, to pin down the terrible premonitions that seemed to grip her soul. She hated the night shift. Anything could happen to him at night, when the streets were empty and isolated. Every morning she paced nervously, her stomach in knots, wondering if today would be the day she received word that he would never be coming home again. It wasn't until the front door opened and she heard his footsteps and his voice that she finally relaxed.

Strains of Elizabeth's chatter and laughter drifted up to the room and Katrina smiled lightly. The little girl loved playing with Stephen Masbath, who treated her as if she were his own flesh and blood little sister and it was often a pleasure for Katrina to let him take over while she enjoyed the luxury of a much-needed break. Elizabeth was as lovely and sweet a child as ever, but she could also be quite exhausting. Bright and curious, and clearly endowed with her father's great intelligence, she was always exploring, always active, always asking questions.

A light tapping on the door drew her attention and she turned away from the window. Anna their maid stood in the doorway of Ichabod's laboratory where Katrina had retreated so Elizabeth wouldn't be subjected to her fretting and worrying.

"Anna. Has Ichabod returned? I didn't hear him come in yet…"

The petite raven-haired young woman stepped into the room. "He is not home yet, Lady Crane. Would you like me to bring some food up for you now? It's already quite late and you have not even breakfasted. I know that you are anxious. We all are. But it will do you no good to skip meals and become weakened."

"Thank you, Anna," Katrina replied with a kind, appreciative smile. "I'll come downstairs. I think I will ask Stephen to run over to the constabulary now. Ichabod has enough to worry about, and I don't want him to be burdened with my own fears about him. But his shift should have ended over two hours ago. I think it is not unreasonable for us to ask after him at this point."

**oooOooo**

Ichabod had gone directly to the medical school at nine o'clock that morning, as soon as his shift ended, but Doctor Jessop had attempted to brush him off, claiming that his class was beginning in a matter of minutes. Upon seeing that Ichabod intended to persist until he had his interview he reluctantly agreed to meet with him at lunch time and asked him to return at noon.

It didn't make sense to go home to sleep. By the time he settled down to bed it would be nearly time to get up and make his way back to Columbia College. Instead he went to the Watch House to write up a detailed report of the body he'd found, in hopes that maybe someone would finally pay attention.

At eleven o'clock he set off for Columbia College again. As he exited the front door of the Watch House and made his way down the stairs Constables Grey and Wiggins passed him, heading in the opposite direction on their way inside. Two workmen were with them, dragging a wooden cart with a body on it. Ichabod approached them.

"Just a minute," he ordered authoritatively and they stopped.

He seized the edge of the blanket that covered the body and pulled it back to reveal the face and neck. He bent down and examined the side of the man's neck, discovering the exact same type of marks that the woman had on her neck. With his finger he measured the diameter and distance apart, concluding that the measurements were very close if not the same.

"What are you doing, Crane?" Constable Grey exclaimed.

"Look at these wounds."

The two constables came around to look at what it was that Ichabod found so interesting about a corpse. He pointed out the marks to them.

"Have you ever seen anything such as that?" he inquired.

Grey and Wiggins both shook their heads, looking perplexed.

"Never," Grey said, emphasizing his agreement.

"Neither have I, until a few hours ago when I found these same exact marks on the neck of another victim I discovered, a woman."

Ichabod went back into the Watch House with them and brought this new evidence to the High Constable's attention.

"These marks, in common on both corpses, are bound to be important. At the very least all constables should be told to look for the same wounds on any new victims they find."

The High Constable loudly heaved a frustrated sigh. "Your shift ended hours ago, Constable Crane. Are you now determined to infuriate me even during your off hours?"

For a minute there was silence. Then Constable Wiggins spoke up. Much to Ichabod's complete disbelief it was to agree with him.

"With all due respect, sir, I've never seen wounds like this before. I don't know what it means but perhaps it is important…"

Both Ichabod and the High Constable gaped at him, stupefied. Then the High Constable sighed again and waved them off.

"Burn the body. I'll put out the word for everyone to check any bodies they find for the same marks," he conceded in a low, grudging tone.

"I've already written a description of the wounds," Ichabod told him, indicating the report he'd handed up a few minutes before. "It's in the report I gave you."

His superior glared at him then turned his gaze back to the other two constables, who were still standing there with the wooden cart and the two bearers.

"What are you waiting for? Carry on," he snapped at them and they moved off toward the furnace to dispose of their burden.

Ichabod turned and left the Watch House again, feeling vindicated and a little smug. He made his way back to Columbia College.

Doctor Jessop was a tall gentleman of middle age, with small features and a slim body. His dark hair and beard were peppered throughout with grey, and his manner was somewhat stiff and snobbish. He was a senior professor who had been working at Columbia College's Medical School for over fifteen years.

They sat in his office, a drab cluttered room with a desk and a large chair behind it, and another smaller chair across where a guest could sit. There was a window behind the desk and the walls on either side were covered with shelves filled with large medical volumes and journals. Papers and charts of the human body were scattered all over the desk. His framed diplomas hung on the wall behind him on either side of the window. He'd attended and received honors from several colleges.

"We met last week, didn't we?" Doctor Jessop said, eyeing Ichabod closely. "You're the constable who has been attempting to hire someone to perform a post-mortem."

"That's right."

Ichabod knew from the man's undisguised expression of disdain during their first meeting that the doctor considered him a poser and a lunatic.

"Have you come to ask again?" he chuckled.

"I actually had a question concerning something I found on the body of the latest victim several hours ago, and then on another body brought to the Watch House just before I came here," Ichabod replied undeterred. "I know that you are busy and I appreciate whatever help you can possibly give. I shall endeavor to keep this interview short."

Ichabod withdrew his ledger and opened it, thumbing through the pages until he found the page he was seeking. He turned the book around so that the doctor could read it and pointed to the diagram he'd drawn of the neck with the two holes.

"Have you ever seen wounds such as this before?" He described the coloring, the size and the fact that the two holes were exactly identical in shape and size. As he spoke he could see the doctor's look of condescension slowly morph into something close to respect.

The doctor stroked his beard thoughtfully for a minute or so after Ichabod had finished speaking. "Were these lesions of some sort?"

"They were more like…holes. The edges of the skin around them were pink and slightly raised. There was no chafing or abrasions, no bruising, not even a trace of blood around the wounds. I cannot imagine any weapon in existence that would leave such marks as that. Could it possibly be a lesion caused by some sort of disease, or perhaps a bite from an insect that we've never seen?"

"Judging from the size of the holes I would say it would have to be an enormous insect."

"Then perhaps another type of parasite, or an animal?"

"It's possible, of course, but I have never seen anything like it in my career."

"If you do by chance come across it, please contact me at the Watch House on Broad Street. Ask for Constable Crane. I work at night. If I'm not on duty you can leave a message for me."

"I will. Constable Crane, I'm wondering one other thing. Did you find these marks anywhere else on the body, or only her neck? Perhaps you didn't examine…"

"Yes, I examined the first body I found externally from head to toe. There were only the two holes on her neck. I did not have the opportunity to examine the other body, but there were wounds on the neck, in the exact same place."

He nodded. "I'll contact you if I have anything else to tell you about it."

Ichabod rose and reached out to shake his hand.

"Thank you. And thank you for your time."


	2. Chapter 2

_**30th April, 1804**_

_Body count continues to rise, though today's exact count is uncertain due to the fact that at least one body appears to have been 'lost' again. Today it was the body of a man. The only bodies yet to be burned when we approached the furnace were women – Constable Ames states that he must have burned the man's body but forgot that he'd already done so. This is the third time this week that a body that we believed hadn't been burned yet was nowhere to be found. It can be assumed that these bodies were burned and whoever was assigned to the task lost track of how many corpses they'd burned. A small thing but something about it strikes me as odd._

"Crane."

Ichabod was seated at his desk staring unseeingly at the notes that he'd made in his ledger, his mind far away. Constable White's voice brought him back to the present and he looked up.

"They just brought in another body with those markings on the neck, as well as a suspect."

"A suspect? What exactly is he suspected of?"

"Murder, of course."

"I see. And what was the exact method that he used?"

"He was at the scene," White answered with a shrug. "Constable Thompson brought him in."

"I see." Ichabod suppressed a sigh and fought the urge to roll his eyes. The so-called suspect was no doubt someone they'd simply chosen to harrass. "Why isn't Constable Thompson questioning him then?"

"We figured it would be right up your alley. The man is clearly a raving lunatic."

Ichabod fixed him with an annoyed stare, debating whether he ought to bother indulging the man.

"I'll take you to him," White offered, smirking. "He's down in one of the cells."

"No," Ichabod demanded firmly. He hated the cells. "Bring him here to me."

"Are you serious?"

"I am. I'll not go down to the cells. Bring him here if you would like me to question him."

Constable White left him, muttering something about him being insane too, and Ichabod returned to his notes. Tonight, much to his relief, it was his turn to work desk duty rather than patrolling the streets. His annoyance with White subsided and regret set in as he reconsidered that it might not have been a good idea to send White away. Both Constable White and Constable Thompson had as much interest in real fact-finding as the High Constable or any of his other colleagues; none. No doubt Thompson's interrogation would consist of beating the suspect up and asking him nothing. He sighed remorsefully and was about to stand up with the intent of heading to the cells after all, but Constable White burst back into the room with the prisoner in tow before he could. Constable Thompson was with him now.

"His name is John Leeds. Good luck, Crane," White quipped, chaining the suspect's leg to the chair leg as soon as he was seated before Ichabod's desk. He and Thompson went off to their own desks and Ichabod turned his attention to John Leeds.

The suspect was a young man. He couldn't have been more than eighteen years old in Ichabod's estimation and he was no doubt homeless, based on his dress. His face and clothing were dirty, but even under the dirt Ichabod could see the bruises and the fresh blood around John Leeds' mouth. His colleagues had already given him a working over.

Grimacing Ichabod turned to a blank page in his ledger and wrote the date and 'John Leeds' testimony' at the top.

"I'm innocent," John Leeds declared in a youthful sounding tenor voice.

"That's what they all say," Constable Thompson retorted with a snicker from across the room.

"You look like a nice fellow," Leeds said, ignoring Thompson and leaning in to speak confidentially to Ichabod. "As I said, I didn't do it. But I saw who did. I saw who killed the man. And I tried to tell him," he scornfully jabbed a thumb in Constable Thompson's direction, "but he wouldn't listen."

Ichabod stared at him with some interest. "You saw the man who did it? Did you point him out to...?"

"Oh, no, by the time that lout seized me by the arm the man was gone."

"Tell me what happened." He dipped his pen in ink and prepared to write. "How did you come to discover the body and this other man?"

"I was on my way…home…and I turned onto Cherry Street. Halfway up the block in front of me I could see the dead man lying on the ground and there was another man there, kneeling beside him. He was leaning over him."

"Cherry Street is quite dark," Ichabod replied. "Are you certain of what you saw? Did you get a good look at the man's face?"

"Oh, I didn't see his face at all."

Ichabod paused, frowning. "I see."

"But I did see him."

"Very well. Describe what you did see."

"He was quite tall," Leeds began. "Once he stood up I could see that he was tall. He was wearing a long black cape with a high collar."

He wrote while John Leeds spoke. "Go on. You said the other man, the man wearing the cape, was on the ground leaning over the dead man?"

"Yes."

"And you never saw his face."

"No. He was kneeling on the ground and he had his back to me the whole time."

"Could you see what he was doing, besides kneeling over the...?"

"Oh, I don't know what he was doing. All I could see was that he was leaning over the man for a long time. I thought maybe he was trying to help him. But he wasn't. After several minutes he stood up, leaving the body where it was. Then he vanished in a puff of smoke."

Ichabod's pen halted. He snapped his ledger shut and put his pen aside. "Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Leeds."

"Don't you want to hear the rest?"

"I believe that I have everything I need."

His gaze shifted to White and Thompson who were watching him and struggling to suppress their laughter at his expense. He sighed and stood up, crossing the room and approaching their desks.

"Didn't I tell you?" White laughed.

"Mr. Leeds is not a murderer," Ichabod replied quietly. "He ought to be released to a doctor's care, not kept in jail."

"He's insane."

"There is no doubt about that. But he isn't a murderer."

"You believe his story?"

"I don't know what he believes he saw tonight, but I don't believe that he murdered these victims. In the first place there is nothing to indicate that they _have_ been murdered. Other than the two wounds on the necks, and we don't even know what those are or how they were received, there is nothing to indicate that they were attacked at all."

"He was found with the body, Crane. You don't think it's plausible that he killed the man?"

"That proves nothing. It's just as plausible that he arrived on that street after the man was already dead and was in the wrong place at the wrong time when Constable Thompson arrived."

"Well, we'll need a higher authority to decide this matter," Constable Thompson spoke up finally. "He'll have to at least spend the night here, Crane. Then when the High Constable arrives in the morning he can take Mr. Leeds to court and the Burgomaster will decide the matter."

"Yes, I suppose that is how it has to be," Ichabod sighed. "But the least you can do is have Mr. Leeds' face treated."

Thompson made a gesture to White, who tossed him a key, then he went over to John Leeds and unlocked the chain that bound him to the chair in front of Ichabod's desk.

"Back to the cells, Leeds."

"I'm innocent, Constable," he protested.

"So I hear. You can explain yourself to the Burgomaster in the morning."

He dragged Leeds off to the cells and Ichabod returned to his desk, shaking his head. This would not turn out well.

**oooOooo**

Much to Ichabod's surprise John Leeds was released the next day. The Burgomaster operated under the assumption that these related deaths, including that of the body that Mr. Leeds had been found with, were more likely caused by a disease. He did not think these were murders. Since there was no crime there was no reason to hold Mr. Leeds. For once Ichabod was in agreement with him. It was the most sensible ruling he had ever seen the Burgomaster make.

Unfortunately Mr. Leeds insisted on returning to the Watch House that evening to speak with Ichabod about what he'd seen.

"I've already heard your testimony, Mr. Leeds, and I thank you very much. If I need to speak with you again I shall contact you."

Leeds followed him out of the Watch House and into the street. "But you don't know where to find me, Constable."

"You mentioned Cherry Street."

"Yes," the young man answered dejectedly. "You can find me on Cherry Street."

"I do not wish to be rude, Mr. Leeds, but I am due to start my shift patrolling the streets and cannot speak with you now. Should I have need to question you further I promise that I will seek you out on Cherry Street."

"Be careful, Constable. Certainly the man in the black cape will return and he will kill more people, just as he killed that man."

Ichabod thanked him for his concern and moved off, dismissing his words as more nonsense.


	3. Chapter 3

**_May, 1804_**

During the month of March the constabulary had discovered a total of twenty-five bodies, always in the morning hours – nearly an average of one per day. In April that number nearly tripled to three bodies per day.

Although the authorities still operated as if this was a yellow fever epidemic the Burgomaster and the High Constable were considering that some other cause might be at work. After Ichabod had pointed out the same set of holes on the necks of the two victims a few weeks before all constables were advised to look for these odd holes should they discover other bodies. They were found on the necks of each and every body. Unfortunately, beyond noting this similarity the constabulary did very little. Ichabod's superiors were still convinced that this was simply a symptom of some sort of disease, though they'd given up on the idea that it was a different type of yellow fever. Ichabod was not so easily convinced, although he couldn't offer any other suggestion.

"Not only are these punctures always found on the necks of the victims," he exhorted them one day late in May, more than three months to the day exactly that they'd found the first corpse, "but they are found in the exact same place. Here, on the carotid artery. I cannot explain what type of wounds they are, as I have never seen anything like it in my life and neither had the doctor who I spoke to at Columbia."

"It's regretful that out of every constable on the force you were the one to discover the first body," the High Constable growled. "It has given you reason to believe that this case is yours."

"I am only seeking truth."

The Burgomaster heaved an exasperated sigh. "We are exactly where we started, Constable Crane. No one has ever seen these wounds before and we have no idea what they are. And we are still without a solution."

"If you would either let me examine the bodies or retain a medical professional to examine them more thoroughly…"

"Constable Crane…"

"Am I the only one who sees how odd the circumstances of these deaths are? The victims are from all walks of life and their bodies have been found in various types of locations. There is nothing consistent about those characteristics. Now we have found a commonality. The puncture wounds. Perhaps they are the bite of a large disease-carrying parasite and the disease was transmitted to the victims through the bite."

"I've seen the bites now, Constable, and judging by their size and breadth the parasite would be the size of a human."

"Yes, I realize that the size…that did occur to me. My point is there are several possibilities, all of them puzzling in their entirety, and they should all be explored."

"I find it hard to believe that a human-sized parasite is roaming the city biting people on the neck and spreading yellow fever, or whatever other disease you think this is," the High Constable sneered.

Ichabod sighed. "I find it hard to believe, too. In fact, everything about this case is hard to believe and impossible to explain, including the way a few of the bodies have mysteriously disappeared. The other possibility I've considered is that somehow the victims bled to death from those wounds, but that doesn't make any sense either. In each and every case the holes were in the same place, right at the _carotid artery_; yet there was not a drop of blood anywhere, not near the body, not on the body or the clothes, not even a stain around the wounds. Don't you see? There should have been some blood! This entire situation is a riddle and we need to be smart in the way we attempt to solve it."

After glaring at him in silence for some time the Burgomaster finally reached up to rub his chin thoughtfully and spoke. "Let's assume that you're correct about that, Constable; that the victims would have bled from these wounds. Where do you think the blood disappeared to? Hasn't it occurred to you that there should have been pools of it?"

"Of course it has. I'm at a loss to explain any of it. But both of these possibilities are things we should focus our attention on, as well as taking other possibilities into consideration. If the wounds are indeed what is causing these deaths…we need to figure out how exactly. We need to investigate this from a scientific point of view, employing professionals with at least some medical knowledge…"

"Such as yourself," he interrupted.

"I do have some medical knowledge. But a physician would obviously have more expertise and it would therefore be ideal to employ one."

"Constable Crane, I gave you permission a few weeks ago to retain a physician if you found one who would consent to conducting the examinations. Clearly you did not find someone willing."

"No. But perhaps if the court saw fit to…"

"I'll not command or compel any physician to perform any such examination if they don't want to."

"Nearly every morning we find at least one dead body, all showing signs of being victims of the same circumstance. How many more need to die before everyone sees reason? How would _you_ suggest we proceed…?"

"Careful, Constable Crane," his superior admonished sternly. "You're about to cross a line."

Ichabod checked himself and remained silent.

"You are still welcome to try to find a physician who will perform the examination. But this court will not force the issue."

**oooOooo**

When Ichabod returned to the medical school that morning to speak to Doctor Jessop he was instead met by another doctor named Peter Camden, who appeared to be quite a bit younger. Ichabod suppressed a disappointed sigh. Doctor Jessop had passed him off to someone with less seniority.

Ichabod examined him, forming an immediate impression of a highly intelligent and extremely nervous man. Whether the doctor was always this nervous or simply nervous with him, he had no idea. He was of an even slighter build than Ichabod, and several inches shorter. His dark brown hair was tied back neatly off of a pale face and his eyes were intelligent and of an icy, piercing blue. He constantly fidgeted and tapped his foot as they sat talking and now and then when he was asked a pointed question his eye twitched spasmodically.

In his favor Doctor Camden was much more receptive and friendly than Doctor Jessop had been on first meeting; but he also balked at the idea of cutting open corpses for the constabulary.

"I don't understand," Ichabod said with a frustrated sigh. "This is a medical college. Do your students not cut open bodies in order to study them and learn?"

"That is different."

"Why?"

The doctor looked uncomfortable and in a moment his left eye was twitching.

"How exactly do you come by the bodies that the students learn on, Doctor Camden?" The question was merely a formality, for Ichabod already knew the answer, or at least he thought he knew.

"It's different because the citizens choose to ignore us," he said, evading the last question. "I was not here during the riots that occurred at this school several years ago, but I've heard about it. An uneasy peace was reached apparently, and while certainly many know what our study involves they…ignore it."

"If it's out of their sight it's out of their mind," Ichabod murmured. "But in this case people are aware…"

"That's right, and there would be a reaction."

"There is going to be a reaction anyway if we keep discovering more bodies. As it is people are panicking because they believe we're experiencing another plague of some sort. Most of them believe that it is yellow fever, and the constabulary is allowing them to believe it. As more and more deaths occur the panic will escalate. I beg you to please reconsider. If we can figure out what this is perhaps we can stop it."

Doctor Camden didn't have a private office at the college as Doctor Jessop did so they'd come outside to sit in the garden behind the building to talk. He rose now and gestured for Ichabod to walk with him, leading him along a path and away from the school building.

"After you questioned Doctor Jessop he came to me to discuss the wounds you'd discovered on the two bodies. He said that you'd both ruled out a parasite possibly transmitting a disease…"

"It would have to be a human-sized insect that left those exact marks, based on the size and breadth. It seems quite unlikely that there is such a parasite in New York City. Surely _someone_ would have seen it by now. Also, since I last spoke to Doctor Jessop we've been inspecting each and every body for these marks. All of them have them, in the same exact spot."

"I see."

"Another thought I had is that the victims bled to death, but that makes no sense either."

"You said that in every case these puncture wounds were in the same place, at the carotid artery?"

"That's right."

Ichabod turned to look at him as they walked, noting that the young physician looked somewhat distressed.

"Is something wrong, Doctor Camden?" he asked.

He turned to Ichabod with a start.

"No, not at all," he replied, regaining his composure and continuing to walk along the path. "You haven't mentioned if there was a lot of blood at the scene. I presume there wasn't?"

"Not a drop," Ichabod answered with a frustrated sigh. "And that is why that theory makes no sense either."

"Yes. If the wounds are indeed at the carotid artery, and that artery has been opened, it stands to reason that there would be pools of blood at the crime scene. Were the bodies moved?"

"I'm not certain, but even still there would be some blood on the clothing. I haven't found even a drop on the clothing of any of the victims I found."

"Is it possible that someone changed their clothing?"

"I suppose anything is possible. But changing clothing on a corpse is not easy and we've been finding bodies nearly every morning. And, in fact, I haven't even found the least trace of blood at the site of the wound!"

"Perhaps if this is the work of a murderer he cleaned the wound," the physician insisted.

"And perhaps he mopped up the blood at the scene too, even when the scene happened to be the streets of the city."

"But surely..." Doctor Camden trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

Ichabod sighed and shook his head. At this point he was beginning to wonder whether the doctor was simply a shady character who was uncomfortable dealing with a member of the constabulary, rather than an extremely high-strung and nervous person in general as he'd first surmised. He definitely got the sense that he was withholding something however, though he couldn't imagine what or for what reason.

"Let's say, for argument's sake, that I am willing to conduct an examination as you wish and write a report to the High Constable and the Burgomaster. It is unlikely that the family of the victim in question will consent to my cutting open their loved one's corpse, and I must respect their wishes if that is the case."

"Many of the victims have been found in the street and there is no kith or kin to be found. Those bodies are simply being burned in the furnaces, rather than buried."

"And you're proposing to instead direct them our way, if we'd be willing to examine them first."

"You never answered me when I asked you exactly how the medical school comes by the bodies that the students study on."

Doctor Camden halted in his tracks again and Ichabod followed suit. They had wandered far away from the building and now stood in a clearing where they had a clear view of New Jersey on the other side of the Hudson River. The doctor turned to him and their eyes locked.

"For what it's worth, Constable, and whether you believe me or not we don't make a habit of robbing cemeteries to obtain the bodies for the students to study. There _are_ some forward-thinking citizens in New York who bequeath their bodies to the furthering of medical science _in their wills_. They understand the good and, yes, the necessity of it and they wish to contribute to that, even after death. This is not something they discuss with others, perhaps not even with all of their family members, and often in those cases a weighted coffin is buried at the funeral for appearances."

"I do believe you, actually. But I'm wondering, do you have enough citizens who do this? What if there is a want in your supply…?"

"We do what we can to manage," he replied evasively.

Ichabod sighed. "Doctor Camden, I am not here to make things difficult for you and I am truly not very concerned about how you come by the bodies you study here. I'm merely questioning the lack of consistency."

His companion was silent, waiting for him to continue. Ichabod wasn't certain what was going on but as he studied the man's face intently he thought Doctor Camden appeared to be extremely disturbed, almost ill.

"It must be obvious to you by now that I am not a man of faith. In addition I find people's superstitions about many other things to be…rather backwards. I believe that it's necessary for medical professionals to study the human body in depth, internally as well as externally, in order to understand it. It will allow physicians to learn much more about how to cure all of the ills of the body. Perhaps it will even lead to discoveries of how to cure mental illness. And I also believe that this same field of study can help us make strides in fighting crime and catching criminals. That is _my_ mission, and it is what I'm desperately trying to do right now."

"I agree with you, Constable Crane. If we can fine-tune the art of the post-mortem examination, as well as other techniques, we can improve our methods of detection of crimes and criminals."

"Then we understand each other. Will you help me?"

They stood there looking at each other for several minutes, neither of them speaking, the silence punctuated only by the buzz of insects and the blaring horn of a ship on the river.

"You are not here to make things difficult for me, or for my colleagues," Doctor Camden repeated finally.

"Not at all," Ichabod replied passionately. "I'm begging you to help me."

"May I speak to you then…informally and without consequences from a legal view?"

He nodded.

"This is going to be...difficult. Bear with me. You're right. There aren't enough citizens who bequeath their bodies to the medical sciences. The rest of the bodies that we…acquire…they are the bodies of the homeless and forgotten. We buy them."

"Yes," Ichabod murmured, making an instant connection. "This is not something I was ever involved with investigating but it had occurred to me that there was something of this sort going on."

"I don't know who makes the purchases or where they purchase them from…"

"It's alright. I didn't think that you did."

"To be honest I don't know for certain that they _don't_ dig up graves to obtain those corpses…but I don't know that they do either."

"As I said, I've not been involved in any investigation. However, I know from experience that when there is a need for something, anything at all, there will always be clever people who realize that they can turn a profit from that need, many of whom do not use honest means to come by that profit. Whoever it is selling these needed corpses, and it is likely an entire ring of people, they have rightly figured out that no one will care about the remains of a friendless vagrant."

"Yes, I don't suppose anyone makes a fuss if a forgotten person's grave is disturbed."

"_If_ they are indeed digging up graves," Ichabod corrected him. "I don't believe that many of these people are even getting buried. There is more than one person involved, as I've said, most likely a ring of people, and I'm quite certain that they are simply managing to find some of these bodies on the street before one of the constables does."

"My reason for telling you about this is that…one of those bodies that came to us in this manner was one of your bodies, with the wounds you've been observing. It fell into my hands last month and I used it in one of my classes."

Ichabod withdrew his ledger and opened up to the page with his drawing of the neck markings. "The body had this type of wound?"

A look of recognition instantly crossed Doctor Camden's face when he saw the drawing and Ichabod was certain now that the doctor appeared sick as he regarded it.

"Yes," he replied, "in exactly the same place on the neck. And the artery had indeed been punctured. There were two holes."

He handed the ledger back to Ichabod, who tucked it back into his pocket.

"Why didn't you come forward about this, Doctor Camden?"

Doctor Camden sighed and shook his head, his features still contorted in the same expression of distress. "Because I didn't trust my findings," he finally answered weakly. "And I'm quite distressed to think that there are multiple cases like this. I should have come forward but...I didn't really know _what_ to do. There is something very wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"First, I cannot account for what could have been used to make those holes or why they would be made in this manner. An insect bite that size would have to have been made by a huge insect, so that can be ruled out as there is no such thing. Another explanation for these wounds is that a human assassin made them." Seeing that Ichabod was about to react he held up a hand. "When I first viewed this body I had no idea that there were others with the same wounds. Now you've provided me with that additional information. The holes, as you've discovered, are all the exact same size and breadth. More than that, they are perfectly round. Perfect, no nicks or ridges. Perfect little circles. Could a human assassin have made these perfect little circles, exactly the same distance apart, each and every time? If he had a certain weapon, which he used in every case, he could."

Ichabod shook his head incredulously. "I'm not familiar with any weapon that would make these marks."

"Perhaps it is a weapon of the assassin's own design, a two-pronged weapon, used to make these exact marks each and every time."

"But for what purpose?" Ichabod exclaimed. "Surely it would be less time-consuming to simply slash a would-be victim's throat with a knife. And this explanation is still contradicted by the lack of blood at the scene."

"There is more, Constable. The first issue is the nature of the wounds and how they could have possibly been inflicted, as we've now discussed somewhat. Second, there was no _livor mortis_, or at least no sign of it when I first viewed the corpse nor when I examined it."

"I don't understand."

"After death, whether it be a human being or any type of animal, the blood, which is obviously no longer being pushed through the body by the heart, settles in the lower portion of the body and congeals there. Which part of the body varies, of course, depending on the position of the body at death. So, if the person died lying on their back the blood would settle along the back of the body, as that is lower. If they were on their stomach, it would be the front. It's all on account of gravity, and there is visible discoloration of the skin when this happens. The skin of the lower part of the body where the blood has settled turns a reddish or purplish color."

"Of course. I've certainly seen this phenomenon. What I don't understand…you're implying that it seemed somehow strange to you that this body did not show signs of _livor mortis_. But perhaps you received the corpse very shortly after death and the process had simply not yet occurred, or even begun."

"That possibility did enter my mind, as the corpse was fresh. They must have picked it up immediately after the moment of death and brought it straight to the medical college. How often does that happen?"

He had been growing more and more agitated as he spoke. His left eye was twitching terribly now. Ichabod found himself becoming quite apprehensive, wondering if Camden's nervousness was simply contagious. He managed to maintain a professional air when he spoke up again, however.

"Please go on, Doctor Camden."

"In the very next anatomy class we – that is I with my students – cut open that corpse and did a complete examination. It seemed to me that it would be a good body to work on, as it was so fresh. At that point, which was at least twelve hours after we received the body, _livor mortis_ ought to have occurred but there were still no signs of it. No reddish discoloration of any kind anywhere on the body. I was…puzzled to say the least, quite disturbed if I am honest. But I proceeded with the lesson and I supervised one of the students in opening up the body to begin the study. We did a thorough examination. My conclusion is that the victim died from loss of blood. But…I still cannot credit what we found. My students were likely as confused as I was, but they didn't mention anything to me and I don't know if they've talked about it amongst themselves or anywhere else. Perhaps they weren't aware of the thing that I observed. All I know is I haven't been able to bring myself to discuss it with anyone until now. In all my time as a practicing physician I've never seen anything like it."

Ichabod stared at him, bewildered. "Then you are saying that somehow the blood had not congealed in this case as it normally does after death? What could account for such a thing? And what does it mean?"

"Constable, there was no blood. Even when a person bleeds to death, death occurs long before every single drop of blood has run out of their body, not to mention that there should have been blood at your crime scenes. I've never in my life seen this sort of thing. Given the nature of the wounds and how they might have been made I can come up with no other explanation than this has to be the work of a madman. There was no blood in the corpse at all, you see, as if someone or something had completely drained it from the body."

**oooOooo**

"Constable? Constable Crane?"

Hands firmly patted his cheeks and Ichabod's eyes fluttered open after a moment.

"Constable Crane," Doctor Camden repeated.

Ichabod found that he was lying on his back, the strong smell of grass in his nostrils, staring up at the sky. His gaze shifted to the physician, who was leaning over him and working to revive him. Annoyed Ichabod reached up and pushed away the hands that were still tapping his face.

"I'm…I'm awake…"

"Are you alright? You fainted."

"Obviously," Ichabod retorted through gritted teeth, angry at both himself and the doctor.

It had been quite some time since his squeamishness had caused him to faint. Of course he normally became queasy, even dizzy, when viewing a particularly gruesome crime scene or corpse, but he'd learned over time how to better stave off these spells and remain conscious. It had been many moons since he'd passed out cold from seeing such things yet alone from merely speaking about them. He was mortified.

A moment later he recalled to mind the shocking revelation that the doctor had sprung on him before he fainted and he sat up with a start, gasping. A wave of dizziness hit him and he leaned forward, holding his head in his hands.

Doctor Camden placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. "I can understand your shock, Constable..."

He raised his head and stared wildly at the doctor.

"I…I…are you suggesting that someone…some lunatic is running around boring holes in people's necks in order to drain all of their blood?" he exclaimed, on the verge of hysteria. "And that he is doing this on a daily basis, to more than one victim each day?"

"To be honest I have no idea what is going on, but I've never seen this sort of thing at all; based on my experience it certainly is not due to natural causes. Anything I can come up with to even try to explain it is utterly macabre…"

"How...how is it possible? And where is all the blood? What could this...madman...possibly be doing with it...?"

Ichabod's eyes began to lose their focus and he was on the verge of fainting again. Doctor Camden quickly seized him by the shoulders. Ichabod's head drooped forward and his eyes closed but he didn't completely lose consciousness.

"Let's not speak of it further at just this instant, Constable," he heard him saying. The doctor shook him and Ichabod raised his head and opened his eyes. "You need a little bit of time to recover."

"I'm alright now."

"The cliff there overlooks the Hudson. If you feel up to walking, a healthy breeze blows off the river up to the cliff top and the fresh air will help to revive you."

Doctor Camden stood up and held out a hand to help him stand. His tone and expression were kind and although Ichabod still felt humiliated at his own weakness he couldn't harbor any further resentment toward the doctor. He accepted his assistance without a word.

They followed the same path they'd been on toward the river, coming to a fairly flat surface of smooth, layered rock that ended at the cliff side. They sat down on the flat stones a few feet back from the edge of the rock face. A strong but pleasant breeze blew off the river and over the cliff top, as Doctor Camden had promised, and Ichabod did feel a little better as it whipped his cheeks and his hair.

After he had rested for a time he withdrew his ledger, pen and ink.

"I have several questions for you, if you don't mind," he said.

Doctor Camden nodded. "I must apologize to you, Constable Crane. The first time you came here seeking assistance I already knew about this, but I hadn't uttered a word to anyone, not even my superiors. You're right that I should have come forward. I was hoping…I don't really know what I was hoping. That what I'd seen wasn't so. And I suppose I was afraid people would think me mad; I wondered if I was. I only hope I haven't caused more harm. And I should have better prepared you for what I was about to say."

"I don't know that there was any way to impart that information without it being a complete shock. Now I understand what you were thinking when you said there would be a reaction. It isn't only the examination of the corpse that you were thinking of. If people discover the circumstances of whatever is going on here there will be more than a panic. There will be hysterical, vengeful mobs. Doctor Camden, you're certain that this one body upon which you made this discovery is the only one? The school didn't encounter any other bodies with these wounds?"

"I'm not aware of it if they did."

"Doctor Jessop claims that he'd never seen them or heard from his colleagues...it's possible that someone else did encounter the same thing and like you didn't discuss it." Ichabod paused. "There is something else," he said finally. "It's small, but it's an odd thing and has disturbed me every time it has occurred."

"What is it?"

"A few of the bodies that have been brought to the constabulary to be burned have been lost."

"Lost?"

"It's been explained away as the constable manning the furnace simply losing track of how many bodies he'd burned."

"That seems like a reasonable explanation."

"I suppose so," Ichabod murmured. "Unless someone took a few of the bodies to sell, as we discussed. As I said, it's a small thing but it struck me as odd. And given everything that has been happening, and your discovery, it seemed worthwhile to mention even a small thing."

Doctor Camden said nothing. Ichabod wondered if maybe there wasn't someone in the constabulary involved with selling some of the bodies to the medical college, but he decided not to press Doctor Camden about it.

He shook his head, pushing away thoughts of the mysteriously unaccounted for bodies. "Were there any other wounds anywhere else on the body that were similar to the ones on the neck?"

"None. We write detailed notes about every examination we perform, and we did so for this one. I'd be willing to share my notes with you. They are at my home. At the end of the day, when I'm finished teaching my classes, I can bring them to you at the Watch House."

"Thank you. I would appreciate that."

"And…you may inform your superiors that I would be willing to examine the bodies of the victims going forward and report my findings to the court in each case."

"Much appreciated. And…if you wouldn't mind…I should like to be present when you do the examination."

"Are you quite certain…?"

"Yes, Doctor Camden. I have performed post-mortem examinations myself on occasion, though it was outside of the city and much more informal."

"Very well, Constable. You may be present if you wish."

**oooOooo**

After Katrina returned home with Elizabeth Stephen took the little girl out to play and Katrina made her way upstairs to the bedroom. Ichabod was fast asleep and she walked on tiptoe so as not to disturb him. He'd left his uniform jacket hanging on the hook on the inside of the bedroom door. She quietly removed it and left the room, returning downstairs to the drawing room and beginning to unpack the sack containing the purchases she'd just made.

The store was small and unassuming. It was located about halfway along the narrow alley and wedged between two prominent, taller buildings. The buildings on either side had front entrances on the main street that ran perpendicular to the alley, but this little store did not have an entrance off of the main street. For that reason, and having never been in this alley, though she'd passed it many times, she'd never known of the store's existence. Ichabod had urged her to stay out of any of the alleys at all cost and remain on the main roads; but for some reason that she couldn't fathom today she was drawn into this alley and as soon as she saw the odd little store she had a feeling about it.

There were several rows of shelves that reached to the ceiling, filled with all sorts of bric-a-brac, from the mundane to the exotic; silverware, ceramic bowls, crockery and cookware, elegant storage boxes, pretty figurines, area rugs, hand-made jewelry, loose beads, gems and stones. Three long shelves were filled with large jars containing all the different herbs that she used for various purposes, including medicinal. The strikingly beautiful woman with dark hair and eyes who'd been sitting behind the counter assisted her, measuring out paper packets of the various herbs she wished to purchase and writing the contents on the outside of each packet.

Her experience in the store was odd and wonderful. For one thing Elizabeth, who usually grew bored and impatient after fifteen minutes of shopping and never refrained from expressing her feelings thus, had remained quiet for the entire hour that Katrina browsed in the store with her. She seemed fascinated by everything, including the woman behind the counter, whose name was Ilona, as Katrina discovered after engaging her in conversation.

Ilona spoke English well, but with a heavy foreign accent that was unfamiliar. She owned the store and had come to New York City two years earlier. And she knew things that it wasn't possible for her to know; yet none of it surprised Katrina for she realized that she could intuit many things about Ilona as well. A bond seemed to form between them almost instantly.

While she was looking over the jewelry on display her eye was drawn to one piece in particular, a small cross on a chain that was somewhat thicker than the others. She picked it up, immediately thinking of Ichabod. He wore a ring on his right index finger as well as his marriage band but she wasn't certain he would wear a necklace, especially one with a cross on it. Though his father had been a reverend Ichabod had rejected his family faith. And frankly, though she often wore or carried protective charms of all kinds she'd never considered a crucifix an item of protection, though she did own a necklace with one and used to wear it to church as a symbol of devotion.

Still, there was something about it and she couldn't resist it. She continued to worry and fret each night while he was working, relaxing only when he finally arrived home in the morning. And once again he'd been extremely late coming home that very morning, not arriving until long after they normally ate lunch. By the time he entered the house she was sick with fear. To make things worse Ichabod was trembling and deathly pale, blatantly spooked by something today, something he refused to talk about. Now when she looked at the crucifix something about it said 'protection'. And she knew she would have to buy it for him.

"For your husband?" Ilona asked, noticing that she'd paused over the necklace and approaching her. "It's a thicker chain, very well suited for a man."

"I don't know if he'll wear a necklace…or a crucifix for that matter…"

"He should, especially at night."

"Yes," Katrina replied.

Their eyes met and a kind of understanding passed between them. Ilona began to rummage through some other pieces on the shelf, deciding on one and handing it to Katrina. It was another cross on a chain, but the chain was short; a watch chain with a crucifix instead of a watch face.

"Thank you. I think he might prefer this," Katrina said thoughtfully as she examined it. "If nothing else, I can slip it into his pocket and he can carry it."

"Secure it, though."

She nodded. "I will."

Ilona packed all of the items she was purchasing in a sack and Katrina paid her. They bid each other goodbye warmly, Ilona urging her to come back soon, then she and Elizabeth left and returned home.

Katrina withdrew the packets of herbs first and took them to the kitchen, setting them on the shelves in the cabinet where she always kept these herbs. Then she went back to the drawing room and sorted through the other items that she'd purchased; the gift that she'd bought for Ichabod, stones, tinctures and oils for spell work. It was then that she discovered two additional paper sacks. There was writing on the outside of each; one said 'Katrina' and the other said 'Elizabeth'. Going over the price of each of her purchases and adding them up Katrina realized that she hadn't been charged for these two items. Ilona had slipped two gifts into her sack.

The packet for her contained a necklace with an opal on it, her birth and zodiac stone. She gaped at it in astonishment, wondering for only a moment how Ilona had known. They hadn't discussed their birthdays.

"But of course she knew," she murmured after a moment. "Just as I know without asking that she was born in November."

She picked up the other packet, knowing even without opening it that it would be another necklace but with an amethyst, Elizabeth's birth and zodiac stone.

Stephen and Elizabeth were outside now and Anna had gone out to shop for that night's dinner. The house was silent as she said a blessing over the crucifix that she'd bought for Ichabod and anointed the chain with protective oil. She then set to work affixing it to his uniform jacket. He was right-handed and favored his right-side pockets; she secured the chain to the inside of his left pocket.


	4. Chapter 4

**_17__th__-18__th__ May, 1804_**

Ichabod woke to Katrina's tender fingers caressing his cheek. He slowly opened sleepy eyes and turned his head to focus on her. She was sitting on the edge of the bed leaning over him.

"I'm sorry to wake you, my love, but it's growing late and you ought to eat before you leave for work."

"What time is it?" he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Nine o'clock."

"Nine!" Ichabod started, instantly wide awake now. He sat up. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

"I'm sorry, I did try to wake you two hours ago but you were sleeping like a log and I couldn't. You wouldn't even move a muscle. And anyway you really were in such a state when you came home today I thought it best to let you sleep after all."

She looked pale, he noticed, even a little haggard, and a sudden sense of deep worry took hold of him.

"Come, my love," she said gently. "You should not go to work on an empty stomach."

"Is everything alright, Katrina? Are you ill?"

"Everything is fine, Ichabod," she answered in her usual serene tone. "But I'm worried about you. You were in such distress earlier. Will you tell me what's wrong?"

"Katrina, are you certain you're not ill? You're so pale!" He held her arms and studied her closely with undisguised concern.

"I feel fine other than the fact that I'm sick with worry about you."

He sighed and shook his head morosely. "I should have insisted that you leave the city with Elizabeth and Stephen as soon as this thing started," he muttered.

"Ichabod, we wouldn't leave you. Besides, where would we go? I sold my father's house in Sleepy Hollow. And you are still evading my question and refusing to tell me what's wrong."

"I...I cannot." He shook his head and sighed. Doctor Camden's revelation from earlier that day haunted him still. "I wouldn't even know where to begin."

She stared at him quietly.

"Your superiors are making things difficult for you?"

"My superiors, my colleagues. That has always been the case and I doubt it will ever change."

Her eyes probed his face intently, searchingly. No doubt she sensed that it was more than simply his superiors that were troubling him, and was possibly using that suggestion to try to ease him into revealing more; but to Ichabod's relief she didn't press him. She simply leaned in to hug him and he returned her embrace. They sat there in silence for several minutes holding each other.

"We missed you terribly today," she whispered and he tightened his embrace.

"I missed all of you too."

Katrina extricated herself from him and slipped off of the bed.

"It will be time for you to leave soon."

"Alright, love. I don't have much of an appetite but I suppose I should take your advice and eat something."

"There is plenty of food left from supper. I kept it warm for you."

Katrina closed the door behind her as she left the room and Ichabod climbed out of bed. She'd left a basin and water on the night stand for him, and he washed hastily then put on a clean white shirt and his uniform. He made his way downstairs.

There was already a plate set out for him when he reached the kitchen and she joined him at the table.

"I don't have a lot of time," he said, glancing at the kitchen clock.

"Eat at least a little bit. Is there anything else you have to do before you leave?"

He shook his head. "Tomorrow I will attempt to stick to my usual schedule and spend time with all of you," he said, picking up his fork. "Something important came up and it couldn't be helped."

"I understand," she murmured.

But he wasn't certain that she did. He set down the fork and reached out to grasp her hand. "Forgive me, Katrina. I truly am sorry. You must know how much it pains me to be away from all of you."

She nodded. "Of course. I just hate when you are away for so long."

"As do I. But I promise I'll make it up to you."

"I'll look forward to that," she replied, smiling affectionately.

"Did the three of you at least do something enjoyable without me today?" he asked, releasing her hand. He picked up his fork again, beginning to eat.

"I went shopping with Elizabeth in the afternoon and I met a very nice woman. She owns the store where we shopped. Her name is Ilona." She paused for a moment then continued thoughtfully. "Sometimes, rarely, you can have an instant bond with someone. She's quite a lovely person. And Elizabeth was fascinated with her. I'd like to invite her for dinner some time if that's alright."

He looked up, surprised. "Of course it is. Why would…?"

Ichabod trailed off at the sound of the front door opening and closing.

"It's Stephen," she informed him.

"Stephen was out tonight?" Ichabod exclaimed in alarm, his fork dropping from his hand.

"Yes," she answered, surprised at his reaction. "Why shouldn't he go out? He has made friends with Nicholas, a boy his age who recently moved into the house at the end of William Street. They've been meeting after dinner on a regular basis for the past few weeks."

Ichabod sighed. "I shall have to speak with him. I do not want him running about outside at night."

"Why? He is only walking a few doors down along the street."

"I know, but the streets are so dangerous after dark, especially now."

Katrina paled visibly and stared at him with enormous eyes. "Then they are dangerous for you, too. And you are out there every night..."

He realized he'd said the wrong thing and groaned inwardly. He wanted to alarm her enough that she would heed his warning, but he did not wish to agitate her and cause her to fret over his safety. Ichabod reached out and took her hand again, squeezing it reassuringly.

"It will be alright, Katrina. I'm only asking that you please take precautions. All of you."

"We will, Ichabod," she answered finally. "I only hope that you are taking your own advice."

**oooOooo**

It was nearly eight o'clock in the morning, almost the end of his shift, when Ichabod found another body in an alley off of Water Street, that of a woman. He examined the corpse thoroughly in the daylight, noting the two puncture wounds on the neck with a new sense of dread now that he understood the possible ramifications. There was not a drop of blood at the scene, nor on the woman's clothing and no trace of it at the site of the wounds. He rang his bell for assistance and called out to Constables James and Thompson to bring coffin bearers. While he waited for them he hired a messenger who was lounging in the doorway of a tavern nearby and directed him to take a note to Doctor Camden at the medical school. The note was to alert the physician that he was about to bring in another victim.

"What do you think you're doing, Crane?" Thompson demanded after he heard Ichabod order the bearers to take the body to the Columbia College of Medicine. "The Burgomaster isn't going to let you start cutting up bodies and you know it."

"The Burgomaster has given me permission to retain a physician to do so if I could find one who was willing. I have found one who is willing."

Ichabod accompanied the coffin bearers to the school, stopping only to hire a second messenger to deliver a note to Katrina telling her that he would not be home for several hours and to next deliver letters to both the Burgomaster and the High Constable advising them that Doctor Camden had agreed to perform a post-mortem examination and that he was working with him. When they arrived at the school Doctor Camden was standing in front of the building waiting for them. He came forward to help.

Half an hour later Ichabod and Doctor Camden stood on either side of the table in the medical school's laboratory and operating room. Every candle in the room was lit so that they'd have as much light as possible and Ichabod hung his lantern up high on the wall for extra light.

"You might have chosen a more convenient time," Doctor Camden remarked pulling on a white smock. "It's awfully early in the morning to already be dealing with this."

"I apologize, Doctor Camden." Ichabod tied his own smock that the physician had given him closed. "But I thought it important to get to work as soon as possible."

He let out a soft laugh. "I'm joking, Constable. A little. But I do understand the urgency. I'm only surprised that we are already here doing this when a day hasn't passed since we first met and talked about it. Shall we begin?"

Ichabod nodded. Doctor Camden pulled the sheet back to reveal the body and then began to remove the clothing with Ichabod's assistance. For a short time they both stared at the bare corpse.

"No visible outer signs of _livor mortis_ yet," Ichabod said breathlessly.

"There is no way of knowing for certain how long this woman has been dead," Doctor Camden offered, though he didn't sound convinced. "Still…"

They examined the outside of the body thoroughly. There was nothing remarkable to note on the outside of the corpse other than the two holes in the neck and the lack of discoloration of the skin providing evidence of _livor mortis_, which were the things they were most concerned with naturally.

Finished with the external examination Doctor Camden prepared to make the first incision to open the body up.

"Are you ready, Constable?" he asked quietly.

Ichabod suddenly became aware that he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly and nodded.

"I should like to take notes."

"Of course. I may ask you to assist at certain points, but for the most part I can do the cutting and removal of the organs and such while you write. I shall take my own notes afterward, as I will have to provide a report to your superiors."

Relieved to have something else to focus on in addition to the body Ichabod took out his ledger and writing implements. He was dreading the results of the examination and he wanted to keep his mind as occupied with more mundane things as he possibly could. Now he watched the doctor work, taking notes and leaning forward to observe when the doctor pointed out something remarkable; the most remarkable thing being that this corpse also did not have a drop of blood in it.

Ichabod groaned and grasped the edge of the table to steady himself.

Doctor Camden paused and observed him closely. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he answered breathlessly. He swallowed with effort then took a few deep breaths. "Fine. Please…continue."

They left nothing unstudied. The examination of the internal organs was thorough and took several hours. By the time they were done Ichabod had filled his ledger with notes detailing every aspect of the body, inside and out.

"Thank you for doing this," Ichabod said when the doctor had replaced the organs, closed up the body as best he could and pulled the sheet back over it. "I apologize for keeping you from your classes today."

"A colleague covered my classes today, and this is important. I'm still at a loss to explain the cause. Perhaps after we've had the opportunity to examine several of these bodies something will become clear." He removed his smock and went to a table off to the side and began to jot down his own notes. "Oh, I never had a chance to bring my notes about the other body to the Watch House yesterday evening for you, Constable. If you wish you can accompany me home and I can give those to you now. Or if you don't feel like waiting I'll be sure to send them off to you tonight."

"I don't mind waiting. It would be useful to compare the notes you took on that body to those I've written about this one, and I should like to start doing so as soon as possible. Perhaps there are other similarities that I can discover. Although, I cannot imagine that I will make any discovery as shocking and outlandish as what we are already dealing with."

"Well, we've made progress at least, as dismal as that progress is. Now there are two commonalities instead of just one."

"Yes. The wounds and the lack of blood. Unfortunately the idea of what this possibly points to...if there is indeed an assassin murdering people and then draining the blood out of the victims, as you intimated when you first spoke of this...I can barely credit it, though I've now seen with my own eyes evidence of this result. The thought of this suggestion...it is completely horrific. What kind of a...?" Ichabod shook his head, leaving the question unfinished.

The doctor ceased writing and looked up from his notes. "That is just it, Constable. The culprit would have to be a lunatic. There is no other explanation."

"But the kind of lunatic!" he exclaimed. "In my time working for the constabulary I've seen countless types of vile things that people do to one another, and I've seen many men, and women, who were quite mentally ill, in various different ways. But this...think of the time it would take to drain every drop of blood, especially if they are doing it via two small holes! And what on earth would the assassin be using the blood for?"

"I cannot begin to understand what the motivations of someone this insane would be, I'm afraid."

Ichabod sighed and shook his head. "And I'm afraid I'm not convinced that this would-be culprit is insane. Rather he is simply evil."

They both fell silent. Doctor Camden went back to his writing and Ichabod turned his gaze to look out of the window, noting with dismay that the sun was already beginning to set. The examination had taken many hours and it wouldn't be long before he would have to begin another shift. Once more he'd missed spending precious hours with his family and to make matters worse he wouldn't be able to get very much sleep before he had to be back on duty at this point. It was already nearly twenty-four hours since he'd last slept and he'd been working on a deficit as it was. A weary sigh escaped his lips again.

Doctor Camden finished writing and began to move about the room, putting things in order and beginning to extinguish the candles.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have waited for me. But I won't be much longer," he told him.

"Alright," Ichabod replied absently.

His exhaustion was catching up to him. Overcome with weariness and fatigue Ichabod found himself staring in the direction of the operating table, his gaze fixed, unblinking and unseeing, on the end of the platform where the victim's feet were.

"You must be starting another shift quite soon."

Ichabod didn't answer, continuing to stare vacantly as the doctor made conversation.

"I don't live far from here. It will not take long to retrieve my notes and then perhaps you can have some time to rest at home."

A small movement in front of his line of vision is what finally jolted Ichabod out of his daze; he blinked and came to attention with a start. One of the feet underneath the sheet had appeared to _twitch_ ever so slightly. He stared at it for a long minute then shook his head, disdaining his own foolishness; he was exhausted and his mind was obviously playing tricks on him.

"Are you ready?" Doctor Camden had come up to stand beside him. "What is it?"

Ichabod shook his head again. "Nothing. I…I'm quite fatigued. It's been a very long day. Yes, I'm ready."

"Here," he said, handing him his lantern. "This is yours."

"What about the body...?" Ichabod asked, gesturing toward the table.

"I've given instructions to two of the students to come in here with bearers this evening and take the body away."

**oooOooo**

_Dear Ilona,_

_Thank you so much for the beautiful gifts for Elizabeth and me. It was truly thoughtful of you and we will wear the necklaces with pleasure._

_If you are available sometime soon I would like to invite you to dine with us one evening. Send word when you are able. I look forward to our next meeting._

_Yours sincerely,  
Katrina Crane_

When the ink was dry Katrina folded the note and sealed it. She left the sitting room and sought out Anna, handing her the note and instructing her to hire a messenger to take it to Ilona. Then she returned to the sitting room and sank down into the armchair by the fire, staring fretfully into the flames.

Katrina had recognized Ichabod's elegant handwriting the moment she opened the note that the messenger had handed her that morning. Going to the sitting room and taking a seat at the writing desk she read it from start to finish then set it aside with a sigh, having discovered with dismay that he would be gone for the entire day. At least he had informed her of his whereabouts so she wouldn't worry and wonder where he was. And despite her disappointment she was genuinely pleased for him. Apparently his superiors had given him approval to hire a physician to conduct a post-mortem examination and he'd found a physician who was not only willing to do it but was also willing to allow him to observe and participate. It was something he'd wished for more than anything and she was happy this opportunity had come to him. Yet she was overcome with a sense of loneliness and despair as she contemplated the added hours that he would be away from them.

Still, there was nothing to be done about it but to try to carry on with her activities for the day. Before she did anything else she had wanted to write a note to Ilona thanking her for the two generous gifts that she'd slipped to her without fuss or fanfare and inviting her to dinner. With that done she was free to go about her usual routine. But she found that she was too anxious and melancholy.

She knew that Ichabod was withholding many things from her. Yesterday he'd been more than simply aggravated the way he was whenever he had to deal with his difficult superiors. No, he was truly shaken up and disturbed and it made her sick with apprehension to see. She hadn't bothered to press him, since it was quite obvious to her that he wasn't going to give in and open up about whatever it was that had happened. Though it was admirable and even somewhat sweet that his instinct was to protect her from unpleasant things it also proved quite maddening at times like these when he was so clearly distressed, and when things were so obviously wrong. She was willing to share the pain and unpleasantness with him, to be his support so he wouldn't have to bear it alone, and yet he didn't seem to trust that she could. He insisted on remaining self-sufficient and independent.

"Mamma?"

Katrina had been absorbed in her thoughts and hadn't heard the door to the sitting room open. She started and turned around at the sound of the little voice and smiled. Elizabeth stood in the doorway with Stephen.

"Are we going to go out soon?"

"Yes, my little love," she said warmly, standing up and moving to the door. She knelt down and embraced her, cradling the little head against her chest. "Thank you for coming to find me. Have you and Stephen been reading together this morning?"

"We were reading the _Knights of the Round Table_."

"Oh, one of my favorites."

"Me too," she chirped happily.

"And she knows it by heart now," Stephen remarked with a mock-pout. "I don't even get a chance to read it anymore. My entire job has been taken away."

Katrina looked up and smiled at him affectionately.

"Can we go out now, Mamma?" Elizabeth squirmed out of Katrina's arms, restless.

"Of course. Do you want to go to the park today?"

She nodded. "Then can we go back to Ilona's store?"

"You liked her, didn't you."

Elizabeth nodded again.

"I liked her very much, too. I've already written her a note thanking her for the necklaces she gave us, but if we go to see her today you can thank her in person and tell her how much you like yours."

"Yes," she replied with an enthusiastic smile.

"Go on upstairs," she said softly, patting her tenderly and coaxing her along. "I'll be right up to help you get dressed."

"Can I wear my new blue dress today?"

"Certainly. And we'll put pretty matching ribbons in your hair too."

As Elizabeth trotted off Stephen asked quietly if everything was alright with Ichabod. She nodded.

"But he won't be home for several hours," she answered with a sigh, keeping her voice as soft as possible too. "He has an opportunity to perform a post-mortem."

"What's a post-mortem?" Elizabeth called out from halfway up the stairs, as usual not missing a thing despite Katrina's efforts. She hadn't quite pronounced the word correctly but there was no getting around it; Katrina would have to come up with an answer that wasn't a lie but would assuage her curiosity without disturbing her.

Stephen turned his face away, attempting to hide his amused smile.

"It's a special kind of examination that they perform sometimes to solve a puzzle," she answered. "Now…"

"What kind of puzzle?" she persisted.

"Puzzles that are extra difficult to solve. Go on to your room now, Pumpkin," she said firmly, changing the subject. "I'll be right up."

"Can I do anything to help?" Stephen asked after they'd heard her little footsteps reach the top of the second floor landing and continue along the floor to her bedroom.

Katrina shook her head. "Everything will be fine. It looks like it's a lovely day. Let's go out and enjoy it."

**oooOooo**

"Ichabod is going to kill you if he finds out you've been venturing into this alley," Stephen remarked softly as they turned off the main street and into the alley where Ilona's shop stood.

"That's why no one is going to say anything to Ichabod," Katrina retorted immediately in a jokingly threatening tone.

"Don't worry," he laughed. "I know better."

Elizabeth was already running ahead of them eagerly and was out of earshot as far as they could tell.

When they entered the store Ilona was helping two women who were shopping there. She smiled in surprise when she saw them and waved. The three of them waited near the counter until she was finished.

"What a wonderful surprise!" she exclaimed warmly. "I didn't expect to see you so soon."

"I wrote you a note earlier today," Katrina said, and Ilona nodded, indicating that she'd received it, "but Elizabeth wanted to come back and say thank you in person."

"Thank you," Elizabeth piped up, smiling shyly at Ilona.

"You're welcome, honey."

Katrina introduced her to Stephen and they shook hands.

"From your note I saw that you live on William Street." Ilona took her seat behind the counter again. "Friends of mine live there, a family named Székely. They have a boy about your age, in fact," she said to Stephen. "His name is Miklós. Or, Nicholas. He likes to use his American name. Perhaps you know him."

"Yes, I know a Nicholas," he answered. "He lives at the end of our street. At the corner of Maiden Lane. I don't know if it's the same…"

"The very same."

Elizabeth was anxious to look about the store again so Stephen agreed to accompany her while Katrina and Ilona talked. They decided that Ilona would come for dinner that Sunday. Ichabod would not have to work that evening and the whole family could be together.

"Did your husband like the gift you bought him?"

"I didn't bring it to his attention, actually. He's been very distressed lately and my…superstitious tendencies, as he still calls them, as well as my magical practices still make him nervous even after almost five years of marriage. I hid it inside the pocket of his uniform, secured as you suggested, but I didn't mention that it was there."

"Then, you simply avoid the topic at all costs?"

"We…skirt the issue," she replied. "There is much in Ichabod's background that has shaped his attitude toward these things. Of course I know that he believes in it, more than he is willing to admit and acknowledge, and he has certainly been aware since we first met that I practice magic; on a certain level he accepts that as par for the course...but he doesn't wish for it to be a conscious part of his life. He prefers to keep it in the background and I'm satisfied to leave it at that if it gives him peace of mind. Besides, I doubt that he would associate a crucifix with protective charms. I don't know what he would think if he knew, actually, but…I do know that he had good reason to reject the faith that he grew up with."

"I understand. But don't worry. As long as he is wearing the crucifix when he is out at night he'll be safe."

Katrina paused. It was on the tip of her tongue to mention to Ilona her fears about Ichabod and to ask her how she could be so certain that he'd be safe with the crucifix charm in his pocket, but Ilona spoke first.

"There has been a rash of deaths in this city…"

"Yes. My husband has been involved in trying to solve them."

Her new friend reached out to grasp her hand, observing her distress, and Katrina opened her heart to her, no longer making an effort to hide her anxiety.

"I worry myself sick about him all the time. Every night I have nightmares. I don't even know what they're about and I never remember them. Ever since his shift changed. He has been working the overnight shift since March and there aren't enough words to express how much I hate it. Especially now that there is this…epidemic. What is to prevent him from contracting the very same illness…?"

Ilona squeezed Katrina's hand comfortingly. "He will be alright. Trust me. But we must talk more about this, Katrina. Not here, not in front of the little one. At your house on Sunday, perhaps, after she has gone to bed."

"Alright. I don't know how you can be so certain...but I do trust you."

If what Ilona had to say concerned the crime he was investigating at all Ichabod would certainly be interested in hearing about it on Sunday as well, even if the discussion did veer into topics of a more magical nature. She would have to prepare him for it though.


	5. Chapter 5

_**19th May, 1804**_

The High Constable summoned him early Saturday morning, just as his shift was ending. Ichabod was so exhausted at that point he was nearly asleep on his feet.

"Doctor Camden's report came this morning, Crane," he told him. "I've sent it off to the Burgomaster but he won't look at it until Monday morning no doubt. And this came for you last night while you were out on your watch."

His superior held out the message and Ichabod stepped forward to take it. He noted the green color of the unbroken seal, the wax color that surgeons used, and knew it was from Doctor Camden.

"That will be all, Constable Crane," said the High Constable, waving him away now. "Until Monday evening."

Ichabod walked out of the Watch House and into the grey, overcast morning. He stopped on the front stairs and opened Doctor Camden's message. He read it in its entirety then the hand holding the paper dropped and he cursed under his breath. As the first drops of rain began to fall he tucked the doctor's note into his pocket and started for home. A carriage was passing and he considered hailing it, for the rain was quickly picking up and the sooner he got into bed the better; but he was too aggravated at the moment and he needed to walk it off. His thoughts raced as he made his way through the streets that were quickly becoming wet and muddy, dwelling on the disturbing note he'd just received.

Yesterday, before they conducted the examination of the latest corpse, Doctor Camden had instructed two students to arrange for the removal of the body after they were done. Late that night, long after he'd gone home, the students contacted him to inform him that when they went to retrieve the body from the laboratory it was gone. The table was empty and there was no sign of the body anywhere else in the room. They searched the entire building then, thinking that maybe one or more of their fellow students had moved it in order to play a joke on them, apparently something they commonly did to one another. But it was to no avail. The corpse had disappeared. Naturally they inquired if Doctor Camden had merely made the arrangements himself and forgotten to inform them.

_Due to the bizarre nature of this mysterious case I felt it important to bring this to your attention, as there is not a clear explanation in sight for the body's disappearance. No doubt some of the bodies that come to the medical school come to us from people, perhaps even constables, who snatched them, as we discussed already_, Doctor Camden had written as his final words. _But never has a body been snatched _from_ the medical school. I am at a loss, Constable Crane._

When he arrived home he went straight to the desk in the sitting room.

"Ichabod?"

Katrina stood in the doorway and Ichabod held up his hand.

"I must answer this message."

"You're soaked. And you look like you're on the verge of collapse."

"I am," he sighed wearily. Indeed he was barely able to focus his eyes at this point. "But it cannot wait."

"What's wrong?"

"This case just gets more and more bizarre as time passes," he muttered in irritation.

"At least take off your boots. You've tracked mud from the front door all the way in here."

He obeyed, mumbling an apology and quickly pulling off his boots. As she took them from him and left the room he withdrew Doctor Camden's message and read it again. Then he hastily wrote a reply, folded it as soon as the ink was dry and sealed it with red wax. Katrina intercepted him before he reached the front door with it.

"I'll send Stephen out to find a messenger to deliver it, Ichabod. Go to bed."

"Katrina…"

"_Go to bed_," she repeated in a tone that brooked no argument and with a facial expression to match.

She snatched the letter from him and glanced at the address that he'd written on the outside. Then she pointed to the stairs, indicating wordlessly for him to go. Resigned and too tired to argue with her he obeyed, and as he made his way up to their bedroom he heard her calling for Stephen.

Ichabod barely managed to make it upstairs to the bedroom and to fall on the bed before he slipped into unconsciousness. When he woke up a few hours later he was under the covers and his clothing had been removed, no doubt by Katrina since he didn't even remember undressing. The room was dim and he could hear the patter of rain on the window pane.

His thoughts immediately went to the message he'd received from Doctor Camden that morning and to the gruesome nature of their discoveries on the corpse, as well as that of the body that the physician had originally examined. He lay in bed fretting for some time until strains of laughter reached him from downstairs, Elizabeth's giggles. He wasted no time rising then; he'd spent enough time away from her and from Katrina and Stephen. There would be plenty of time to brood over his case.

He pulled on a clean pair of slacks, a shirt and waistcoat then made his way downstairs. The sounds came from the sitting room and he went in to join them. Katrina was sitting in the armchair by the fire sewing. Stephen and Elizabeth were seated on the rug, both of them bent over a book. All three of them looked up when he entered the room.

"Papa!" Elizabeth screamed ecstatically at the top of her lungs and he smiled widely. She leaped to her feet and rushed over to him. Ichabod caught her up in his arms and covered her with kisses. Elizabeth buried her face in his shoulder then, squealing with joy.

"I missed you so much, my little love," he whispered.

He walked over to the other armchair in the room, carrying her in his arms, and took a seat, settling her down on his lap. She snuggled against him and he cradled her little head against his chest, tenderly running his fingers through her black curls.

"How are you feeling?" Katrina asked. "You look much better than when you arrived home this morning."

"Alright," he said with a nod. "Relieved that it's Saturday. I suppose that's one advantage to working the night shift. They know how terrible a shift it is so to make up for the hardship they give us the weekends off entirely. Of course, knowing the High Constable, he may force me to start working weekends, too, eventually."

"Would he really be so cruel to you?"

Ichabod nodded again. "If he had a mind to actively force me into resigning."

She shook her head with an expression of profound anger. "What an utter fool he is if he does that."

"I found a messenger to deliver your letter this morning," Stephen spoke up. "There hasn't been a reply yet."

"Thank you, Stephen. I wasn't expecting one."

Elizabeth raised her head and tugged on the collar of Ichabod's shirt. He turned and gazed down at her affectionately.

"What is it? Am I not paying enough attention to you?"

She grinned, her expression so like Katrina's. With the exception of her dark hair, which she'd inherited from him and which matched his color exactly, Elizabeth looked like a miniature version of Katrina.

"Since it is Saturday I'm not working tonight. Do you know what that means, little love?"

"What?"

"That I will be able to sleep tonight and tomorrow we can spend all day together."

Another wordless exclamation of joy escaped her and she squirmed excitedly on his lap. He tightened his arms around her, giving her an affectionate squeeze. She lifted her head again and brought her lips close to his ear.

"Papa?" she whispered.

"What?" he asked, following suit playfully and turning his head to whisper in her ear too.

The rest of this conversation continued thus in whispers.

"Can we work in the lab…the labortory tomorrow, Papa?" she asked, still struggling with the word.

He couldn't help but smile. "Absolutely."

Ichabod kept the door to his laboratory on the top floor locked at all times when he wasn't in there and he didn't allow Katrina or Stephen into the room unless he was present. Elizabeth had never been inside until one day when Katrina was out with Stephen and Ichabod was at a loss as to what to do with Elizabeth to entertain her. It occurred to him that there were safer experiments that he could show her, such as mixing two non-volatile liquids and watching the color change as a reaction occurred for example. Before they went in he made sure that she understood that she was not to touch anything unless he said it was alright, and that she shouldn't even wander anywhere near the shelves stocked with jars and equipment. She gave him a solemn promise and he brought her inside.

He sat her down beside him in a chair near the desk and fashioned a makeshift pair of little goggles for her while she watched with rapt attention.

"This is to protect your eyes," he'd told her, gently putting them on her and adjusting them. "I'll make you your own real pair shortly, but this will have to do for now."

Elizabeth was excited to be allowed into his laboratory for the first time and delighted by the simple experiment he did for her. Since that day he'd thought up a variety of safe and easy experiments that they could do together, experiments that used benign liquids such as water and oil. In this way he had uniquely bonded with her and he was pleased that he'd come up with the idea. She was fascinated by the things he showed her and, understanding the urgency of his warning that there were many potentially dangerous things in the laboratory but that she would be alright as long as she followed his instructions, she sat still in her chair when she was in the room and did not touch anything unless he told her it was alright to.

"Tomorrow we can work in the laboratory for as long as you wish," he added. He smiled tenderly and kissed the top of her head.

"Papa?"

"Yes, Elizabeth?"

"Papa."

"What?"

"Papa."

He laughed. "Do you just want to keep saying my name?"

She buried her face in his chest and giggled, then twisted around to look up at him again.

"Will you read to me before bed tonight too?"

"If I'm not mistaken it's still my turn, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

Katrina had been watching them with an amused smile. "Tomorrow is going to be a big day. I've invited our new friend Ilona for dinner tomorrow, too. She's coming at three o'clock."

"Is that the new friend that you told me about the other day? The one who owns the shop?"

She nodded. "She gave us both lovely gifts from her shop, too. Did you show Papa your new necklace, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth reached down and lifted the chain around her neck to show him. He reached out and gently brought his fingers to rest beneath the polished violet stone.

"How pretty," he said with admiration, gently setting the necklace down against her chest again.

"It's my birth stone," she said, not quite able to pronounce the 'th' in the word 'birth' yet so it came out as 'birf'.

"How did she know?" he asked, playfully brushing the tip of her nose with his finger to emphasize the word 'know'. "Are you going about telling everyone your birthday now?"

"No," she giggled. "Mamma said she guessed it."

He glanced at Katrina with a raised eyebrow. "And she guessed correctly?"

Katrina nodded.

"Mamma got a necklace, too."

"Really? Did she correctly guess your birthday as well, Mamma?"

"Yes, she did," Katrina replied.

"Hmm," he grunted, giving her a playfully reproachful look. "I'm beginning to understand why you instantly bonded with her."

**oooOooo**

Having finished reading to Elizabeth and tucking her into bed Ichabod went downstairs to join Katrina in the sitting room again. Stephen had gone to see his new friend Nicholas once again and wouldn't be back for a couple of hours. He'd gone despite Ichabod's misgivings, for he and Katrina had joined forces to convince him; Ichabod eventually gave in, too exhausted to argue with both of them at once.

A vague recollection came to his mind now as he reached the ground floor and he stopped, pondering. He didn't know why it was important but somehow he sensed that it was. It was something about his uniform jacket and Doctor Camden's note. He'd put it in his pocket after reading it outside the Watch House. Once at home he'd withdrawn it to read it again then he left it on the desk in the sitting room. Or had he put it back into his pocket?

_No. I had taken off my jacket at that point. I left it on the chair by the desk._

Ichabod started off for the sitting room again. Then he halted once more. It wasn't the note, it was something else. When he'd withdrawn the note from the pocket of his uniform jacket his fingers had brushed against something; something that was not…cloth. He'd been too sleepy earlier to wonder what it was.

He turned and went back down the hall toward the front door. Katrina had hung the jacket up in the front hall closet and he withdrew it now, slipping his hand into the pocket and feeling around. There was nothing. He tried the other pocket next and in moments his hand touched something that felt like metal. He tugged at it but was unable to withdraw whatever the thing was; it appeared to be embedded in the cloth. Was it a button he hadn't been aware of?

His curiosity roused now he carried the jacket to the sitting room where he'd have more light. Katrina looked up from the book she was reading and an expression of alarm spread across her face.

"Did you get summoned in to work?" she asked anxiously.

"No, no," he assured her. He took a seat in the other armchair again and began to peer inside the pocket.

"What are you doing?"

"There is something…in here…" Ichabod managed to turn the pocket inside out and the object that he had felt came clearly into view. A silver crucifix on a chain, it was attached to the inside of his pocket. "What on earth…?"

He looked up, noticing now that Katrina had stood up, setting aside her book, and crossed over to his chair.

"I can explain," she began, her expression sheepish.

"You put this in here?" he asked, looking up at her stunned. "What on earth for?"

She tried to take the jacket from him but he pulled it away from her before she could grasp it.

"Katrina, why on earth did you attach a crucifix to the inside of my pocket?"

"It's for protection, Ichabod, for when you're outside on the streets at night."

"A crucifix?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yes. I found it in Ilona's store and I just…I had a feeling about it. She told me that you should wear it always when you go out at night…"

Ichabod shook his head. He'd grown accustomed to the idea a long time ago that Katrina was a white witch, a practitioner of white magic, but sometimes her superstitions still seemed downright silly to him. And now it appeared that she'd found a companion who was equally superstitious and filling her head with even more such nonsense. He returned his attention to his pocket, looking for the place where she'd attached the chain and beginning to take it off.

"No!" she practically shrieked, seizing his hand. "Don't!"

He blinked at her, stunned by her reaction. "Katrina," he said finally. "I'm aware that you wish to use whatever knowledge of white magic you have to protect me, but really..."

She became indignant now. "You may refuse to tell me what horrors you are encountering everyday with regards to this case, Ichabod, but that does not mean I'm unaware that something awful is happening in this city, something that is related to this terrible...epidemic or whatever it is that we've been witnessing."

"And you believe that this crucifix will somehow protect me from this disease, if it is a disease?"

"Don't patronize me, Ichabod. I haven't gathered the clues or examined the bodies, as you have, but I know that there is something evil afoot in this city and that you're out there facing it every night."

His gaze shifted involuntarily to the desk now, where he'd left Doctor Camden's message. A twinge of anger as well as a lot of alarm began to stir inside of him as he realized that she'd read the note and had likely been nosing through his things again. As far as he knew she hadn't done that since the day he caught her peering at his ledger in his room in Sleepy Hollow.

"What is the harm in wearing it?" she continued. "If it will give me some peace of mind about your safety what does it matter to you whether it's in your pocket or not?"

He stared at her now, debating whether he ought to say something about the note but before he could she gave herself away with her next words.

"In Sleepy Hollow did you not come to realize that there are things in this world that cannot be explained by logic or reason? There are supernatural things that exist, things from the spirit world and beyond this reality that exist. Perhaps that will even explain your missing bodies."

"You _did_ read that note, a note that was meant for only me."

She held her ground, despite the guilty expression that flitted across her face. "I didn't have to read the note to know that there is something very wrong."

He rose in order to take advantage of his greater height, tossing the jacket on the chair behind him and gazing down at her with the most authoritative expression he could muster. If Katrina was intimidated at all she didn't show it. She met his gaze unflinchingly.

"Katrina, I am trying to protect you. It is bad enough that I have to deal with some of the horrors that I deal with day in and day out. I do not want..."

"But this is not protecting me, Ichabod, it's only making me worry more because I don't know…"

"I suppose you've been through my ledger as well," he said accusingly.

She glared at him. "You are accusing me…?"

"You read the note, even though it was private..."

"It was out in full view and…I couldn't help myself!"

"And yet you went into the pocket of my jacket and put this in there."

"I'm your wife, Ichabod, and you have been refusing to tell me anything! Don't you understand how sick I've been with worry for you? As much as I might like to at times like this, when I'm so concerned about you, I would not pry into your private things. And I did not read your ledger!"

Katrina turned away from him abruptly and stalked back to the chair she'd been sitting in, throwing herself down into it. Ichabod sighed and sank back into his own chair again too.

"I do not wish to argue with you, Katrina. Perhaps I should not have accused you the way I just did. But you…"

He didn't have a chance to finish his sentence.

"I hate the night shift!" she cried out suddenly, raising her head and staring at him with an anguished expression.

She buried her face in her hands then and burst into sobs. Ichabod sighed in annoyance.

"Katrina, don't."

But she only cried harder. He sighed again wearily and brought a hand up to his head in discomfiture, raking it through his hair agitatedly. The last thing he wanted to be doing was arguing with her, especially during the precious little moments they had alone together.

"I hate the night shift, too," he said after a brief pause. "That does not…"

"You don't know…" she lamented between sobs, "you don't know what it's like waiting for you to come home every morning, thinking that this will be the morning that you won't come home ever again…how agonizing it is for me…"

His obduracy faded and Ichabod stood up, moving to her chair and kneeling down in front of her. He took hold of both her arms tenderly and looked into her face. "Katrina, I know. I hate it, too. But what can I do? My only choice is to accept this shift. Either I cope with the High Constable's treating me this way or I resign. And the latter is just not an option. I will not give up."

She still sobbed uncontrollably. He rose and perched on the arm of the chair now, reaching around and drawing her against him in an embrace. Katrina buried her face in his chest and he began to stroke her hair.

"Katrina," he pleaded, "I didn't mean to distress you. If it will set your mind at ease I'll carry the crucifix in my pocket. I'll carry anything you like. I'm sorry I made a fuss over it."

Katrina didn't reply but her sobs began to subside somewhat.

"I don't want you to give up, Ichabod," she finally spoke, stammering between sobs again. She took a deep breath and when she spoke again finally her words came more easily. "I would never ask such a thing of you and I am proud of you, I'm truly proud. It is so hard to remain in the dark though, when it shows all over your face that something is so very wrong!"

He held her closer. "I suppose this is why you have been looking so pale and sick. Forgive me, Katrina. I should have realized the toll that this would take on you as well. Forgive me for that."

She began to sigh as her crying ceased and he sat holding her for a long time in silence. He brought a hand to her cheek and brushed away the tears that lingered there. Then he placed a gentle finger under her chin and raised her face toward him. Their eyes met.

"But you still should not have read my note, at least not without my permission."

"I'm sorry," she said wanly.

He embraced her again and kissed the top of her head tenderly.

"And I should have told you about the crucifix," she added. "It was foolish of me not to. At the very least it would have saved us an argument. It's just that I know that you are not interested in your…in the religion of your father."

"Well, eventually I was going to put my hand in my pocket and find it, no matter how well you tried to conceal it. Tell me, what is it specifically about a crucifix…?"

"I don't know. But Ilona assures me that you should wear it whenever you're out at night."

"And you believe anything she says?"

"I believe this," she replied emphatically. "I don't know how to explain it, Ichabod, but somehow I know that she's right."

"Did you also put a crucifix into Stephen's pocket to protect him when he goes to his friend Nicholas's house at night?"

"Stephen already wears one all the time, around his neck. I didn't need to."

"Ah, I see."

They held each other in silence.

"So…a body is missing from the medical school?" she asked timidly after awhile.

He drew back and stared at her reproachfully.

"I've already read it, and I've already mentioned it. What is the harm in discussing it?"

Ichabod groaned. "Oh, very well then. Two students were supposed to remove the body that Doctor Camden and I examined yesterday and dispose of it properly. But when they went to retrieve it, the body was gone from the operating table where we'd left it."

"And you believe that somebody may have stolen it?"

"Possibly, although to what purpose…usually bodies are stolen to sell to the medical school. I've never heard of anyone stealing bodies from there, nor has the physician who has been assisting me with this case for the last two days or so. In fact a few bodies seem to have disappeared from the constabulary. I believe that one or more constables may be involved with a scheme to sell them."

"Is that illegal?"

"I'm unaware of the specific laws concerning this issue. It certainly seems improper to me."

"What do you think happened to that body then?"

"I don't know, but surely it didn't walk away by itself," he replied firmly, but he was thinking of the previous evening and the moment that he imagined he saw the corpse's foot twitch. He suddenly felt terribly ill at ease.

Katrina was staring into his face intently. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "This case is baffling in many ways, that's all."

She reached up and stroked his cheek. He drew her close again and they held each other in silence for a time before she spoke again.

"Ichabod, listen. I think Ilona may know something about what is going on in the city."

Ichabod sighed and drew back once more to look into her face. "Ilona again. Unless she is somehow involved in these deaths I cannot imagine what she can possibly know about them beyond what anybody else knows."

"I don't know for sure, but it's possible that she came by her knowledge of this in the same way that she came by her knowledge of Elizabeth's and my birthday."

"I…see." He shook his head and muttered, "Of course."

"I only want to be truthful about it with you. Tomorrow…she will probably speak to me about it when she comes for dinner tomorrow night."

"And I don't doubt for a minute that whatever she has to say will be filled with references to things magical and not of this world."

Katrina shrugged silently then answered, "It's possible, of course."

"And it will no doubt be completely outlandish," he added with a sigh. "I suppose I really cannot keep you from this after all."

"This…crisis, for lack of a better word, affects every citizen of New York City, Ichabod. It is everyone's business."

He nodded.

"Would you at least be willing to hear what Ilona has to say?"

"Yes," he replied after a pause, tenderly running his fingers through her hair. "I might as well hear what she has to say."


	6. Chapter 6

**_20th May, 1804_**

They had just sat down to breakfast on Sunday morning when the doorbell rang. Anna was about to leave the kitchen to answer it but Ichabod rose and stayed her.

"I'll go."

The letter that the messenger at the door handed him was sealed with green wax and Ichabod knew it was from Doctor Camden again. Ichabod asked him to wait for a possible reply and went off to the sitting room to read the message. Doctor Camden had written to advise him of four things: first, the corpse they'd performed the examination on still had not been found; second, two doctors who taught at the school had been killed on Friday evening, though their bodies had not been discovered until late Saturday morning. Both bodies had the same holes on their necks in the same place; although a post-mortem had not been performed on either body yet he'd already made a note of the lack of evidence of _livor mortis_ in both cases and was fairly certain that upon opening them up he would find that the blood had been drained from them as well.

He didn't know what to make of the third and fourth things that the doctor wished to inform him about. One was not something that Doctor Camden had witnessed himself, but rather heard about. Apparently he'd been at a party the previous evening and the subject of the rash of deaths came up. There was nothing odd about this, of course, as everyone in New York City was concerned and fearful. Even at a party the subject was bound to come up, especially since some of the guests had lost loved ones and friends to this mysterious plague, or whatever it was, in these past months. But the conversation at the doctor's party took an odd twist, as these particular guests claimed that their loved ones had appeared to them since their deaths, outside of their windows at night, or so they thought.

Doctor Camden attributed these claimed sightings to grief and a wish for those that had lost family or friends to see their loved ones again. He would have thought nothing further about it until he was talking to Grace Bartlett, one of the women who had lost her fiancé to this illness and who he was greatly concerned about. She also claimed to have seen her dead fiancé outside of her window after dark. In addition she was very pale and quite sickly-looking. He again explained this all away as a lack of taking enough nourishment and rest due to grief, and he urged her to take better care of herself. Then he saw the two marks on her neck. They were hidden by the collar of her dress until she moved a certain way and the material of her collar shifted; he caught a clear glimpse of the marks then, identical to those they'd seen on the victims. And yet the woman was very much alive.

Ichabod set the letter down on the desk and withdrew a clean sheet of paper from the drawer. He stared into space pensively for a few minutes then took up pen and ink and wrote a short response thanking Doctor Camden for the information and asking him for Grace Bartlett's address. Then he asked him to meet him at the medical school on Monday morning.

When the ink was dry he sealed the letter and went back to the front door. The messenger was still waiting outside. Then he went back to the kitchen to join his family for breakfast.

"Is everything alright?" Katrina asked with concern.

"That is yet to be seen," he replied with a sigh. "As I've said this case gets stranger and more perplexing with each passing day. I've received additional information from the doctor who is consulting for me."

"Oh."

He reached out and took her hand. "I'm meeting him tomorrow. Today I've already promised Elizabeth that we will work in the laboratory together. And we're having a guest for dinner later, a guest who may have some interesting theories of her own. That will be enough work for today."

**oooOooo**

Ichabod could understand why both Elizabeth and Katrina were drawn to Ilona Vajda. There was something about her that was captivating. She was striking looking with her dark eyes and extremely pale perfectly oval face framed by jet black hair. But it wasn't just her features; it was her manner, the graceful almost ethereal way in which she comported herself, her entire demeanor.

Katrina introduced her to Ichabod and then the family spent a pleasant afternoon together with their guest. They sat down to dinner at half past three. With Anna's help Katrina had done most of the cooking, or at least the complicated cooking, and she had gone all out in preparing a very elaborate feast. They ate leisurely and discussed incidental things such as the weather of late, and the differences between New York and Rhode Island, where Ilona had lived for three years before she came to New York.

"Where did you live before you lived in Rhode Island?" Ichabod asked.

"I come from Erdély."

"Erdély," he repeated blankly. It was not a country he'd ever heard of.

Ilona's brow wrinkled and she seemed to struggle to find the words. "That is what we call it in Magyar. In German it is called Siebenbürgen, meaning 'seven towns'."

"Are you from Germany then?"

"No. Erdély is south and east of Germany."

"I've never heard of either Erdély or Siebenbürgen," he said wonderingly.

"I don't know the English word…I'm from the town of Braşov."

"Is that where Nicholas and his family are from, too?" Stephen asked.

She looked at him and smiled. "Yes."

Ichabod stopped eating abruptly and stared from Ilona to Stephen and back to Ilona again. "Then, you know Stephen's friend Nicholas?"

"Yes, I am friends with his family."

"That…is a coincidence."

Katrina glanced at him. "We were saying that the other day."

He let the subject drop for the time being.

When they were finished eating they moved back into the parlor. They had coffee and sweets there, played cards and continued to talk about incidental things. Elizabeth, with assistance from Ichabod on the scientific terms, proudly shared with everyone an account of the experiment they had conducted together in the laboratory that morning, a simple experiment in which they poured oil, honey and water into a beaker and observed how the three liquids separated into layers then dropped a coin, a grape and a piece of cork in and watched as each object settled into a different layer of liquid; an experiment that demonstrated the concept of density.

Later, while Katrina visited with her friend, Ichabod took Elizabeth upstairs when it was time for bed, helped her change into her bedclothes, read to her and tucked her in. When he returned to the parlor Katrina, Ilona and Stephen were sitting quietly, apparently waiting for him.

Ichabod's gaze shifted nervously from Katrina to Ilona and back to Katrina. His wife gave him a reassuring smile and he nodded. Then he took a seat on the sofa and turned his attention to Ilona.

"My wife tells me that…you may have knowledge about what is happening in this city…"

Anna poked her head in at that moment to ask if they needed anything.

"Thank you, Anna," Katrina answered. "Please bring us more coffee. Then you can leave the carafe here and take the rest of the evening off."

They were silent, waiting for Anna to return. She came in carrying the silver carafe, refilled everyone's cup and set the carafe down on the silver tray that lay on the coffee table. Katrina stood up and went to draw the doors closed after Anna left the room then she moved to the sofa and took a seat beside Ichabod.

"My story will seem outlandish to you, Constable Crane. I want to warn you about that and ask that you keep an open mind."

Ichabod took a deep breath and nodded. "Please go on."

"First, I don't think it is yellow fever or a plague or an epidemic of any sort that is causing these deaths, though it is possibly meant to look that way."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"I don't know."

"But you…what…" Ichabod swallowed and nervously licked his dry lips. "What is it you wish to tell me then?"

"A story from my country that may have some bearing on what is happening here. About two hundred years ago there was a noble woman in my country, Countess Zsófia of the Rozsályi family. A dangerous and cruel murderess, she lured her victims, mostly young girls, to her castle and tortured them to death. She was finally tried and convicted of murder after many years of these activities and after possibly hundreds of people were killed. She was put to death and interred in her family vault beneath their castle on the outskirts of Braşov, in the Kárpátok Mountains. The surviving family members had all records of the trial, all testimony and eye witness accounts, of which there were many, locked away in the castle. Naturally this was an embarrassment to them and they did not want anyone else getting hold of records of these events. This did not stop the stories from being passed down through the generations, but no one was able to read the documentation. The records were recently uncovered again however and studied. By recently I mean around twenty years ago. According to the extensive testimony that was gathered Countess Zsófia's crimes were utterly shocking and macabre, horrific. Her servants, who claimed that they were coerced into assisting her, testified that she lured her victims to the castle under various pretenses, captured them and using all sorts of methods tortured them in ways to draw copious amounts of blood. It was the servants' job to collect the blood as it ran out of the victims into a basin. The countess drank the blood that the servants collected. It is rumored that she believed that their blood, particularly the blood of girls who were virgins, would help her maintain her youth. There was some intimation that she may have even bathed in the blood as well. She used contraptions such as an iron maiden..."

While she was speaking of the countess's actions Ichabod felt his wife's arm slip around his waist. The moment Ilona mentioned the iron maiden he leaned against Katrina, closing his eyes against the memory that instantly came. She alone knew of the details of his mother's death in an iron maiden, at the hands of his father, and she tightened her arm around him and began to stroke him soothingly.

"It's important that you know, as it has bearing on everything. Forgive me for distressing you so, Constable Crane."

He opened his eyes again after a few moments, pushing away the memory and regaining his composure.

"This could be the work of a murderer or murderess who is copying this Countess, if they know her story," he said, ignoring Ilona's apology and speaking firmly as he pursued a line of reasoning that had now occurred to him. "Or perhaps they are simply afflicted with the same perversity or…" he trailed off, suddenly thinking of Sleepy Hollow and the day he caught Katrina's stepmother fornicating with the town's reverend. He'd witnessed her cutting her own hand with a knife while in the middle of their act and spreading her blood all over the reverend's back. "It's also possible that this is some odd ritual killing, even a religious ritual."

"Those are possibilities, of course. But there is more to the story, Constable. Not long after Countess Zsófia was buried there were several reports of people sighting her, both in Braşov and in the surrounding area. At first these sightings were dismissed as mistaken identity, imagination, hysteria even. Her life and the nature of her crimes, all of it was so bizarre, so sensational, after all. After enough reports, however, and after upstanding and respectable citizens began to report sightings of her too they went to the castle and into the vault to investigate, despite the protests of the surviving family members. They found that the hinges of the lid to the tomb had been damaged, broken in fact."

"Someone broke in to her tomb? Did they take her body?"

"Her body was in the tomb. They examined the lid and the broken hinges carefully. Judging from the dents and scratch marks on the _inside_ of the lid as well as the way the hinges were attacked they concluded that the damage had been done from the inside, not the outside of the tomb."

"Was she buried alive then?" he gasped.

"It's possible. But she had successfully broken the hinges and could get out of the tomb. Why would she go back in then? No, it was not premature burial, Constable."

"Then…what are you suggesting? That a dead woman broke the lid to her tomb from inside of it, escaped from her family's vault and walked about town, appearing to the residents? And then returned in time for them to find her there when they opened it up?"

"That is what they believed, although I suppose anything is possible in this world and perhaps she did manage to survive her execution but kept that fact hidden. After all, if she wanted to continue her activities what better way to do so without being held accountable than if people believed she was dead? My guess though is that once they had the tomb opened they checked for a heartbeat and found none. At any rate several weeks had passed and the body showed no signs of decay. In addition, a mysterious illness had begun to afflict many of the people in Braşov since the Countess's death. Further investigation revealed that this same illness had also affected the family members and servants still residing in the castle, as well as people living between the castle and the town proper. The symptoms were the same among all of the afflicted: deathly pale skin, terrible weakness and lethargy. And every person had two odd marks on their necks, the marks identical on each of them."

Ichabod felt the hair on his own neck begin to bristle and he shivered as a chill traveled along his spine. He was thinking of all of the bodies he'd seen, and of Doctor Camden's story of the woman at the party, Grace Bartlett.

"_Kalandornô_," she announced.

"I…I beg pardon?" he sputtered distractedly.

"_Kalandornô_. She is the undead, as are her victims. They are not alive but they are not dead either, once human but human no longer."

Ichabod stared at her open-mouthed.

"Those that had grown ill since her death died shortly after. At first it was dismissed as a plague, although the holes on the necks were never explained. But then the families began to report sightings of their loved ones that had died of this strange disease, and there were continued reports of sightings of Countess Zsófia. More people were stricken with the same illness, an illness that physicians couldn't diagnose with any certainty. Many of them believed that garlic had certain properties that could fight off disease however and it was recommended that people eat it, wear it as a talisman, put up garlands of it in their houses. According to legend this proved to be effective.

"In the meanwhile workers were brought in to repair Countess Zsófia's tomb. It was sealed shut this time and the entire family vault was chained up so that no one could get in or out without a key to the lock. Still there were reports of sightings of the countess, so they went back to the vault to investigate once more. _The chain was broken._ Someone had beaten the door so hard – from the inside – that the doors were burst open, the chain with it. And when they examined the tomb again, they found that the hinges had again been broken, from the inside."

"So…they concluded that the countess herself, despite being dead, had broken out of her tomb and the vault…had even broken through a locked chain…"

"Yes, so she could continue to feed on the living."

"What?" he exclaimed breathlessly.

"When the townspeople discovered the condition of her tomb and the vault they concluded that she indeed had escaped, that her bloodlust in life had remained with her in death. So strong it was that she was compelled each night to emerge from her tomb in order to feed on the blood of the living."

Ichabod stared at her dumbfounded.

"I did warn you that it would be an outlandish tale, Constable."

"Is there more to this...story?"

"Think of the symptoms of each victim, Constable. Lack of blood easily explains the deathly pallor, the weakness and lethargy that the victims suffered. That is what the townspeople assumed was the cause of the victims' illness and eventual death. Every time they went to investigate the countess's body was in her tomb, of course; but they always went during the day. They believed that she left the tomb after dark and returned to it during the day. Perhaps she was compelled to do so. But all of the sightings were always at night, after the sun had set. That is why it was so easy at first to assume that people had been mistaken or imagining it. Many people believed that the countess…infected the victims somehow when she drank their blood…both killing them and infecting them with her blood lust. After they died they too were compelled to leave their graves at night, to feed on the living.

"Some of the families went to the graves of their loved ones during the day to exhume the bodies. Several techniques were employed to ensure that the deceased would stop rising and feeding, and at last have rest. In some cases they drove a stake through the heart, in others the heart was removed and burned. Others burned the entire body. Still others cut off the heads of the deceased. These methods seemed to work, as those people claimed that once these steps had been taken they never again sighted their deceased loved ones. There is no written proof of this, of course. They are stories that have been passed down from generation to generation. Countess Zsófia is infamous in my country, especially in my town and her life story is naturally very much in our awareness.

"There are also accounts of a crucifix protecting people from the souls that rose from the grave to feed on the living. I suppose it is because they aren't living or dead, in defiance of what is natural. That is why I recommended to your wife that you carry one at night. It is protection without the smell that garlic will have."

Ichabod's eyes widened even more. "I…I don't…I don't…you don't actually believe that this dead countess is here in New York City, over two hundred years later, killing people and feeding on them…do you?"

"It is my suspicion that either she, or an undead soul like her, is possibly doing this, yes. There may be more than one of them, given the number of bodies you have discovered in these past few months."

**oooOooo**

"Ichabod…"

"Really, Katrina, I'm not about to dictate who you are to be friends with, but that woman is not in her right mind!"

Not ten minutes had passed since Katrina had escorted her friend to the door and parted from her with warm words and promises to visit again soon before they were discussing Ilona's story heatedly. Stephen had gone upstairs to bed.

After Ilona had finished her account of the countess and expressed exactly what her suspicions were Ichabod thanked her and remarked that he would keep it in mind. Then Katrina and her friend conversed about other subjects that concerned them and Ichabod never said another word about anything until she was gone.

"I disagree, Ichabod…"

He stopped pacing and stared hard at her, a feeling of disappointment rising in him. "Don't tell me you believe that preposterous nonsense."

"Ichabod, I know that you have never been completely comfortable with magic and the spirit world, but did you not come face to face with it in Sleepy Hollow? Surely you cannot deny its existence. Besides, even if there is a more rational explanation in this case it doesn't mean that the supernatural and the magical don't exist at all. It is not so preposterous..."

"But a dead person rising from the grave to feed on people's blood…there is another explanation, Katrina. There has to be and I must pursue more rational theories before I even begin to give this any credence. Premature burial is one explanation for stories of such things. And even if there is something…supernatural…at work here that is not the entire story. The Headless Horseman, for example, was not rising from his grave to kill people of his own accord. He was controlled by your stepmother's spell. Even if we are dealing with a supernatural element, and that is a big if, we are certainly also dealing with a very real, very alive human culprit. My guess is that this culprit simply shares that countess's perversity."

She lowered her eyes and nodded mutely.

Ichabod went to the sofa and sat down beside her, taking her hand. "Forgive me. I know that you do not like to think of her."

"No, you make a good argument. Ilona was repeating tales that she heard growing up, tales that were possibly sensationalized because they were based around the life of someone who _was_ sensational, albeit in a horrific way. Perhaps she has not reached the next step in logic; that the countess was rising from the grave not of her own accord. Just as the Headless Horseman was controlled by my stepmother's spell, perhaps someone was controlling the countess, a relative or friend of one of her victims, someone who would want revenge; someone who knew how to cast a spell to punish her after death. Think of the torment of having to spend eternity rising each night, wandering to feed a bloodlust, never being able to finally rest. That is punishment indeed."

"That is still…unbelievable."

But he was thinking of the two corpses with no blood in them, the two that he at least knew about, and he wondered if it was possible that some odious character was killing people and, like the countess, draining the blood from their victims to drink it. His thoughts drifted to his interview with John Leeds a few weeks before and Leeds' claim that he'd seen a man in a cape kneeling over the victim. Was that what the man in the cape was doing? Was he draining the blood from the body right there in the street when Leeds came upon him? Or had he done so somewhere else and moved the body? Perhaps Leeds came upon the man as he was depositing the corpse.

Of course Leeds then said the man in the cape disappeared in a puff of smoke, so he was not exactly a reliable witness. And then there was Grace Bartlett, the woman that Doctor Camden had written about. There were certainly eerie similarities between Ilona's description of the symptoms that the townsfolk had suffered and those described by the doctor when he spoke of the woman at the party.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "As I said, this is the work of a living human murderer, a murderer that quite possibly shares the countess's perversity."

"There _are_ stories of such things here in this country though, Ichabod," Katrina argued. "Legends of all kinds. There is an Iroquois tale called 'The Vampire Skeleton' that I heard as a child. Of course we never really completely thought it was true, but still…these stories come from somewhere."

"But there is a logical explanation for where the stories come from."

"Usually."

Ichabod hesitated for a few moments before speaking. "What…is the tale that you heard?"

Katrina flashed him a knowing look; he returned it with a look of annoyance.

"Are you certain you want me to tell the story? It's creepy…"

"It cannot possibly be any more disturbing – or preposterous – than what we listened to this entire evening. Besides, if I am to figure out what exactly is going on I need to do as much research as possible. I shall consider your story part of my research."

She gave him another knowing look and he stared at her reproachfully.

"Humor me, Katrina."

"I am not a compelling storyteller but I will do my best," she said gently, smiling and squeezing his hand. "There was a man of a certain village who was said to be an evil wizard. No one could prove it but it was said that at night he turned himself into an owl and went about doing bad things. He had no family and when he died his body was placed in a cedar wood box by the villagers, and the box placed inside his lodge deep in the woods.

"Many moons passed. One night a woman, her husband and their small son were travelling through the woods on their way to a village. They came to a clearing and before them stood an old lodge…"

"It was the lodge of this evil wizard, of course."

"Shhh! Let me tell my story."

"Forgive me. Go on."

"The husband wished to stop at this lodge and spend the night, but the woman did not like the look of the place and urged her husband that they should keep walking. Her husband would not listen and declared that they would stay there."

"I suppose this tale is also a lesson about how we husbands should listen to our wives," he interrupted again, unable to help himself.

"Ichabod!"

"I'm sorry. Please continue."

"I know why you're doing this…"

"Shh, alright, I'm sorry. Go on. Please."

"No more interruptions or I shall refuse to finish the story."

"Please continue, Katrina. I solemnly promise to not interrupt anymore."

"They went into the lodge. There was only one bed, set in a corner of the room and near it was a large cedar box. The husband declared that he would sleep in the bed, since it was closer to the door and he could protect the woman and child if there was any trouble. He climbed into the bed and wrapped his blankets around him. Meanwhile the woman made herself as comfortable as she could on the floor in the middle of the lodge. It was cold and she only had one small blanket which she wrapped around her child.

"She finally fell asleep, but a short time later was awakened by a strange sound. It was like the sound of teeth crushing the bones of an animal. She opened her eyes slowly and looked around. The moon was shining brightly, shining in through the open door and window. Her husband still lay wrapped in his blankets on the bed. But she sensed that something was wrong. She crept over to the bed to look at her husband and found that he was dead. His throat had been torn out. In the bright moonlight she could see that the lid of the cedar box that lay near the bed was open. She looked into the box and saw an even more frightening thing. Within the box was the skeleton of a large man, its teeth red with blood.

"The woman realized that the body in the cedar box was that of a man who had been evil in life, that even death had not stopped him from thirsting for human blood. She knew that although he was now satiated he would soon grow hungry again and come for her and her child. She crawled silently back to her place on the floor where her baby was wrapped in the blanket and pretended to go back to sleep. She slowly began to move toward the door, dragging her baby with her. When she reached the doorway she leaped up and rushed through the door, her baby in her arms. As she ran out of the clearing and on to the trail to the village she heard a terrible cry behind her. It was the scream of the vampire skeleton. He had discovered that she was gone and was on her trail.

"As she ran the scream kept getting closer and closer, he was getting closer and closer, but she didn't look back. She kept running and made it to the village. She could see light coming from the nearest lodge and ran inside. There were men and women in the lodge and the woman told them the story of what happened to her. An old woman spoke then, a woman who knew about the lodge and about the deceased man who had been laid to rest there. She said that she'd been afraid this would happen and that they needed to root out the evil. The old woman, the men from the village and the woman who had lost her husband all went to the lodge where the evil wizard's body had been left. They found the body of the woman's husband in the bed; all of the flesh had been eaten from his body. Inside the cedar box, covered with blood, was the skeleton of the wizard. The old woman placed certain herbs inside the cedar box and in front of the doorway. Then she instructed the men to pile dry wood all around the house. She then set fire to the wood and soon the whole lodge was burning. A noise like the screaming of a man began to come from the middle of the flames. Just as the lodge had completely burned they saw something emerge from the ashes. It was a large screech owl, which rose up into the air. The men aimed their weapons and tried to shoot it down but the owl flew off and disappeared into the forest. From that time on people who died were no longer placed in cedar boxes above the ground, but were instead buried in the earth. That way a wandering spirit would not find it so easy to escape and roam the night."

"Well," he said after several moments of silence, "that story certainly is similar to your friend's story of the countess."

"In certain ways it is very similar," she agreed. "That is why I thought of it."

"Only…the owl wasn't destroyed. He flew off and could possibly be making mischief this very day. In fact that owl is perhaps the culprit that I'm looking for," he added facetiously.

"No," she said, laughing. "The skeleton was destroyed and he is doomed to roam the forest as the spirit of a screech owl. Oh, and afterward the woman who lost her husband found friends in the village and eventually married a man who helped her and listened to her advice."

Ichabod sighed and she began to giggle.

"As if I wouldn't realize that this was the point of the story all along."

"It isn't the only point," she replied. Her giggles subsided and she regarded him soberly. "But in all seriousness, Ichabod, there are many such stories in common, from many different groups of people, in different languages, from many different places. Perhaps there is something to this…"

"I don't believe that. Myths and stories such as that one were a way to explain death and possibly to explain decomposition at a time when people didn't understand how such things worked. All sorts of odd things can happen as the body decays. For example the skin on the fingertips recedes and that can give the appearance that the nails on the corpse have grown. People certainly might have observed this and not knowing better thought it indicated that the person was somehow...still living, or not quite dead. Something like that could certainly spark superstition and folklore, and it would explain why there are similar stories from different places."

He paused for a moment, frowning pensively, thinking of the corpse he and Doctor Camden had examined.

"You're thinking of something," she said. "What is it?"

Ichabod shook his head.

"Don't push me away, Ichabod. I've seen that expression on your face so often lately, especially this week. What's wrong?"

"When we…oh, Katrina, really it isn't worth mentioning…I was exhausted…but when we examined the body the other night there was a moment when I thought I saw one of the feet of the corpse twitch."

"The foot twitched?"

He shook his head again. "I was exhausted."

Katrina was watching him intently. "But you aren't certain that you imagined it, are you?"

"It had to be my imagination."

"And if it wasn't?"

"There is still a reasonable explanation. As I said there are many things that can happen, many processes that take place after the body dies. _Rigor mortis_ is an example. The body may appear to jerk, to move when one or more of these processes occur."

"I suppose that is one explanation," she conceded.

"It is the only explanation," he insisted.

"Ichabod, listen. Is it possible that the marks on the necks of the victims are teeth marks?"

He turned and stared at her wordlessly for several moments.

"How did you know about the marks, Katrina?" he finally asked quietly, wondering if she had lied to him about reading his ledger during their argument the previous evening. "I don't believe I ever mentioned them to you."

"I saw your reaction when Ilona spoke of them. It wasn't hard to guess that she'd struck a nerve."

He sighed. "Yes, it certainly did strike a nerve. Everything about her story struck a nerve."

"Yet you are still denying it."

"Oh, Katrina, I don't know what I think but I cannot believe that a dead countess from Europe is now here in New York feeding on the living. I'd only seen those marks, which are actually holes, two neat round holes, on the corpses. But in his note this morning Doctor Camden informed me that he was at a party last night and saw a woman with those same marks on her neck, a woman who was very much alive obviously. I asked him for her address, which he provided to me in his second letter today. Tomorrow morning I will question her. She is the first person that I know of who has been attacked in this way and survived. Perhaps she saw her attacker and can provide the answers I need."

"Ilona talked about the people of the town who fell ill after the countess died. They had these same marks on their necks and they were alive. They died eventually but still. It's rather eerie…"

"I agree that there are similarities in the details of her story but the incidents surrounding this countess occurred over two hundred years ago. There is no written record of it, only stories passed down from generation to generation, stories that have likely been embellished and greatly exaggerated to the point where they no longer have very much basis in reality. I refuse to believe that this story has any bearing on what is going on in this city and I won't entertain the idea until I've solidly refuted every other possible logical and reasonable explanation."

"Do you have any theories at all about the holes in the neck?"

"Doctor Camden and I have discussed the possibility that there is a murderer using a certain weapon that is leaving the holes. It would explain why they are identical and so precisely in the same place each and every time. We're not certain of it, and there are many reasons why we would rule it out…but it's a theory anyway. And…given the placement of these wounds the victims must have bled from them."

"But there is no blood at the crime scenes."

"No. There is no blood in the bodies at all," he sighed.

She stared at him incredulously and he nodded.

"So, they bled to death and yet there was no blood at the crime scenes."

"Even if they'd bled to death there should have been blood in the body. According to the doctor they would have died before every drop of blood was gone from their bodies. No, these bodies were deliberately drained…" he trailed off and buried his face in his hands.

"Such a murderer is either insane or truly evil. Or both."

Ichabod looked up and nodded. She took his hand again and squeezed it reassuringly. He smiled wanly then drew her into an embrace.

"And now, my love, do you understand why I didn't want you to be privy to this?"

"I understand, Ichabod, but how safe would I be _not_ knowing anything about this? Besides, I met Ilona, who was going to tell me about it one way or another eventually."

"Yes, I suppose she would have," he sighed. "I wonder if Stephen's friend…if his friend's family believes this same story as Ilona."

"It's possible, but not necessarily so, even if they are from the same place."

"I must admit that I've never heard of the place she named."

"Neither have I."

"Erdély," he murmured thoughtfully. He shook his head. "I wonder if maybe Stephen's friend…or perhaps someone in his family…may know what the place is called in English."

"Perhaps Stephen can ask. Listen, Ichabod, I realize that there are utterly gruesome things that you encounter in your work every day, things that you must keep from me. But I want to know what is happening. You needn't share every detail with me. But I'm your wife and if things trouble you I will gladly share the burden with you. It really is alright."

He hugged her and kissed her forehead tenderly. "Alright, my love."


	7. Chapter 7

_**21st-22nd May, 1804**_

Between the nearly full moon glowing in the cloudless night sky and the numerous streetlamps she would have an easy time navigating the streets without a lantern, she thought. She had never before ventured out alone at night since coming to the city, not even once, and she couldn't help but feel terribly apprehensive.

She slipped on her black cloak, pulled the hood up to cover her hair and moved toward the door silently. Pausing at the front door she turned around and glanced down along the empty hallway. Elizabeth was asleep of course, and Katrina had instructed Anna to watch over her this evening. Stephen had gone upstairs to his room after returning from Nicholas's house, but he wasn't necessarily asleep. The boy was vigilant and very protective of them, particularly when Ichabod was not around, and now that Ichabod was on the nightshift she knew Stephen watched over them extra carefully after dark. She half-expected him to appear in the hallway.

The house was silent save for the ticking of the kitchen clock. She stood motionless for a few minutes, listening for other sounds, waiting for Stephen to appear and question her. The house remained still and no one appeared to stop her. She quietly opened the door and stepped out into the night, pulling the door shut behind her.

William Street was dim and deserted. Although the night air was warm and she was wearing an extra layer Katrina shivered involuntarily. She reached up and touched the warm crucifix that lay against her chest. It hung on a silver chain and the feel of it beneath her fingers was reassuring. She let go of it, pulled her cloak tighter around her body, descended the front steps and began to make her way up the street toward her destination.

Her heart beat rapidly as she approached the edge of the city proper. She'd never been this far north even during the day; there was nobody and nothing here but a jail house, a cemetery and beyond that farms and wilderness. As she approached the gate that enclosed the cemetery she spotted the dark figure.

"Ilona?" she called out softly, startled by the sound of her own voice despite herself.

"Yes," she whispered, beckoning.

She hurried over to meet her friend.

"My husband will kill me if he finds out that I've been wandering around alone at night, in a graveyard no less…"

"He won't find out. His beat is on the other side of town."

"How do you know?"

"Some of my…colleagues…have been keeping watch over him."

Katrina was stunned and did not reply.

They passed through the open gate of wrought-iron and into the cemetery. Ilona led her through several rows of graves before stopping and pointing to one that had been recently covered up.

"The bodies that your husband and his colleagues find are being burned for the most part. But the other ones, those that died at home, in bed, they have been buried. That is the grave of one of those latest victims."

Ilona placed something in Katrina's hands, which turned out to be a long wooden stake, and told her to wait where she stood. Her friend walked a few feet away and reached into a satchel that she was carrying. She withdrew her hand and released what looked like powder onto the ground. Her hand went back into the sack several more times, drawing out more of the powder each time. As she sprinkled the powder she stepped backwards, turning and making a wide arc around Katrina, chanting in her own language. Katrina sensed the change in the energy around her and realized that Ilona was drawing an enchanted circle with the powder, no doubt for protection. The powder was at least partly made up of garlic; the pungent smell reached her nostrils in the still warm air.

After drawing a large full circle around them Ilona began to use her foot to spread out the powder and close any broken parts of the circle. Then she joined Katrina in the center and coaxed her to sit down on the ground next to her.

"We'll be safe in here," she said, taking back the wooden stake that she'd given her.

"Is that garlic you were sprinkling?"

"Garlic and other ingredients, all blessed, of course. I will teach you this protection spell later."

"Thank you. You said that there is something I must see…"

She pointed at the new grave. "Keep your eye on that grave."

Katrina shivered and her heart thudded in her chest again as she gazed at the mound of freshly piled dirt. She was thinking about the story that Ilona had told them the previous evening, of the countess who left her grave at night and roamed about, preying on the living. Was this what she was about to witness?

Ilona's warm hand closed over hers. "They will not be able to cross the boundary into the circle. We will be alright."

"They?" Katrina repeated nervously.

She nodded.

"This is related to the story you told us yesterday night."

"Yes."

"Why…" she paused, uncomfortable, trying to search for the right words. "You said that people you know are watching over my husband? Why have they specifically singled him out? Is he more in danger than anyone else?"

"No more than any of the others who are working or simply out at night. He is the only member of the constabulary who has questioned whether the rash of deaths is truly due to a plague though. Because he is your husband I asked them to keep an eye on him."

Katrina opened her mouth to speak but a noise that seemed to come from underground stopped her. A gasp escaped from her lips and she nearly jumped a foot in the air when she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye movement in the dirt on the new grave. She turned and stared directly at the grave, feeling the blood draining from her face when she saw the soil crumbling and beginning to roll down from the top of the mound, without a doubt disturbed by something underneath.

Ilona squeezed her hand reassuringly. "It will be alright. I told you they cannot get to us while we're in this circle."

**oooOooo**

His shift had barely started when Ichabod discovered the first victim of the night.

Leaving the Broad Street Watch House after checking in he made his way to Water Street and headed north toward his beat. No sooner had he turned onto Water Street and walked a few feet to reach Mesier's Alley when he caught a glimpse of movement in the dark. He turned into the alley, holding his lantern up high to make his way lighter and glimpsed what appeared to be a dark figure kneeling on the ground. The figure turned toward him as the light hit the alley then stood up.

"Can I be of assistance?" Ichabod called out, moving forward slowly.

He could now see that there was another figure sprawled on the ground there and he began to hurry toward it. The figure that stood now was a man, Ichabod could see, and he wore a black cape. He thought of James Leeds' story of the man in the black cape. Had he stumbled luckily on the culprit? This man was fairly short, certainly shorter than he was, and Leeds' description was that of a tall man. Still, perhaps Leeds had been exaggerating or mistaken, especially given his extreme flight of fancy as to the rest of the tale; and there was also the possibility of more than one culprit at work.

The man stood rather than knelt over the prone figure now, and he appeared to be waiting him. But as Ichabod drew within a few feet of him and had just glimpsed the deathly pale impassive face the man suddenly turned away. Ichabod didn't have the time or presence of mind to call out for him to stop, or for anything else. He stood there in the alley unaware that he had stopped moving and gaped at the spot where the man had been standing, wondering if he'd imagined seeing him; for one moment the man had been standing there in front of him, the next moment he was gone, as if he'd vanished into thin air – or quite impossibly run away at a speed that was faster than the blink of an eye.

"What…on earth…?" Ichabod murmured dazedly.

The second figure was still there, lying unmoving on the ground. Ichabod shook off his stupor and moved over to the body, that of a man. He knelt down and placed his fingers against the carotid artery to check for a pulse, frowning as he felt the familiar holes beneath his fingertips. He wasn't surprised to find that there was no pulse. Shining the lantern on the neck area he examined the wounds, measuring them and noting with dismay that the two holes seemed smaller and slightly closer to each other than those of the ones he'd found on the other corpses that he'd been able to examine.

Rising to his feet after completing a superficial examination of the body Ichabod rang his bell and called out loudly.

"Crane? Is that you?"

"None other," Ichabod called out, recognizing Constable White's voice.

White entered the alley and came up to stand beside him, peering at the corpse.

"I suppose you'll want your doctor to examine this one too."

"Mm-hmm," he answered absently.

"Thompson is summoning the coffin bearers."

Ichabod didn't respond. He was distracted, thinking of the other man that he'd seen in this alley, sure that he hadn't imagined him and wondering how he'd disappeared so quickly, right in front of his eyes yet without his seeing him run off. Again he thought of James Leeds' story. Leeds had described the man he saw as disappearing in a puff of smoke but Ichabod had seen no such thing.

"_Ridiculous,"_ he said under his breath and shook his head, unable to believe that he was entertaining that idea.

He turned his thoughts to the size difference of the wounds on this corpse and what that pointed to. Given the number of bodies they'd been finding they either had one very busy assassin or several assassins using the same type of weapon. If he was to assume that there was more than one murderer then it was logical to conclude that this victim had likely been murdered by a different assassin, who was using a slightly different sized weapon.

"It seems there were some deaths at the medical school on the weekend, too," White spoke up again, interrupting his thoughts. "Perhaps it is an epidemic after all, and now that you've involved the medical school with these victims the doctors are getting sick too."

"There are several possible theories as to the cause of these deaths," Ichabod replied evenly.

His colleague muttered something under his breath and didn't pursue any further conversation. They waited in silence until Thompson arrived with the coffin bearers.

**oooOooo**

The next couple of hours of Ichabod's shift were fairly uneventful. First he went with the coffin bearers to the medical school and met a bleary-eyed Doctor Camden. He explained the size difference of the wounds that he'd noted and the physician advised that he would take exact measurements during his examination.

Then he left the doctor to his work and returned to his beat, paying close attention to Mesier's Alley and the other alleys and small secluded slips where nasty doings and vicious attacks were more likely to occur, unseen. An odd thing about this area, and the city in general, was the extremes that existed side by side, often a single block apart. On the one hand there was Fraunces Tavern on Pearl Street, a fairly nice eating and drinking establishment that boasted a prestigious clientele that had at one time included George Washington; yet walk a mere two blocks away toward the East River and one found themselves in the middle of one of the most dangerous areas in the city.

Ichabod patrolled his area with no further incident until about four in the morning, which was when he arrived back at Coenties Slip and Pearl Street and made the turn onto Coenties Slip. Ahead of him, halfway along the slip, he glimpsed a figure hunched over another prone figure. This time he didn't pause or call out. He ran to the familiar tableau as fast as he could, reaching them in time to see that the kneeling person was holding a weapon of some sort high over his head with both hands, poised to plunge it down into the prone person's chest.

"What do you think you're doing?" Ichabod exclaimed, dropping his lantern to the ground and seizing the assailant's arm.

"Let me go! I have to do this!"

He was taken aback by the voice. It was a male voice on the verge of changing; a young teen.

Prying the weapon loose from the boy's fingers Ichabod discovered that it wasn't a knife but a wooden stake, about a foot long. The sharp point had been aimed at the chest of the prone body.

The boy began to try to scramble to his feet but he was small and very slight of build, and Ichabod restrained him easily with a firm hand on his shoulder. "No, no, you're not going anywhere until you've answered a few questions."

"I didn't do anything wrong," the boy protested, sinking back down onto the ground under the weight of Ichabod's hand.

"Is that so? I've just found you kneeling over the body of a man who appears to be dead, preparing to finish the job."

"I didn't kill him."

"It certainly looks as if you did, or were at the very least about to. Who is he?"

"I don't know. I found him like this, already dead."

"And you decided to ensure that he was? With this of all things?" he asked, indicating the wooden stake that he now held.

Receiving no response Ichabod stooped over, picked up his lantern and held it over him, taken aback once more as he got a clearer glimpse of the boy. His appearance was startling – and reminiscent of Katrina's friend Ilona. He had the same pale skin, the same striking black hair and eyes, and Ichabod imagined that he could see a resemblance. He judged the boy to be about fourteen or so, around Stephen's age.

"Usually when I find a dead body I ring my bell to summon the other constables who are nearby," Ichabod explained kindly but firmly. "But they would automatically assume that you are the culprit, without asking any questions…"

"I didn't kill him. But I have to make sure he is dead," the boy suddenly blurted out.

"I see." Ichabod knelt down beside him, set the lantern on the ground again and laid the stake alongside of it. He reached out, placing his fingers on the prone figure's neck, feeling the familiar holes and no pulse. Holding the lantern up again to shed more light on the body he examined the holes, measuring them with his fingers. He set the lantern down once more and picked up the wooden stake, examining the sharp end, which was too thick to have made the holes; he laid it down on the ground again and turned back to the boy. "Well, I can assure you he is dead. He has no pulse. Are you carrying any other weapons besides this?"

The boy turned out his pockets, revealing some coins and a crucifix but no weapons.

"Did you see who killed the man?"

"No. No one else was here when I came."

The boy reached out frantically then to take the stake back but Ichabod placed his hand on it, not allowing him to take it.

"You fool!" he cried. "He's not really dead yet! You think he is but he isn't! He will only be dead after I drive that stake through his heart!"

Ichabod sighed, thinking of Ilona's tale from the previous night. "I too have heard such superstitious tales from someone. I wonder if we've heard them from the very same someone."

"It isn't superstition," he retorted. This was followed by a stream of unfamiliar syllables, which Ichabod could only deduce were epithets being hurled at him in another language, likely the same language that Ilona spoke.

"Well, I don't know what language you are speaking, but perhaps you are acquainted with the very same person who I've heard these tales from. Her name is Ilona Vajda."

This made the boy pause and he looked at Ichabod stunned.

"She is my wife's friend," he continued. "I am Constable Ichabod Crane."

His eyes went wider and there was a spark of recognition in them. "Crane?"

"That's right. Have you heard of me?"

"Possibly," he mumbled, casting his eyes down at the ground.

"What is your name?"

He looked up and hesitated.

"Surely I didn't ask you that difficult a question," Ichabod said, noting the dilemma that openly showed on the boy's face as to whether he ought to provide his real name or a fake one. But it made no difference what name he gave; Ichabod already knew without having to ask that he had just coincidentally encountered Nicholas, Stephen's new friend who lived a few doors down from them. Why the boy was out at this hour roaming the streets was beyond him. He could only thank God that he hadn't discovered Stephen out with him.

"Miklós," he answered finally.

"Miklós. That is your given name?"

He nodded.

"And your family name, Miklós?"

"Székely."

"Where do you live, Miklós Székely?"

"Are you going to arrest me?"

"Not at this time. As far as I know there is no law against attempting to stab a body that's already dead. But I should like to make certain that you get home safely."

"I don't need help getting home," he answered, sulking.

"Very well, then." Ichabod studied Miklós thoughtfully. The boy looked up and met his gaze, almost challenging him.

"Will you be burning that body?" he asked finally. "The body needs to be either burned or a stake driven through the heart. Otherwise it will rise up and kill others in the same way."

Ichabod shook his head and sighed again. "You seem like an intelligent young man. I cannot believe that you put stock in such nonsense."

"It isn't nonsense." Miklós's frustration and agitation was obvious. "I suppose you didn't believe Ilona Vajda when she told you about it either."

With another sigh Ichabod stood up and coaxed the boy to his feet. "Go home. It is late and you should not be out roaming the streets. You're apt to get into trouble and I assure you that if you run into another constable, things will not be so easy for you."

Miklós went for the wooden stake that lay on the ground next to the lantern but Ichabod quickly moved his leg and trapped it under his foot.

"I shall keep this, if you don't mind, at least for tonight. If we don't meet again I'll give it to Ilona Vajda and ask her to return it to you."

The boy looked up at him with a frown.

"Stay out of trouble now," he warned.

"Wait, Constable. What if I show you?"

"Show me what?"

"I'll show you what happens to the body, after it's been staked. That will prove…"

"I'm afraid I cannot let you deface the body in any way," Ichabod told him, shaking his head. "It must remain intact until the physician can examine it. Now go home."

**oooOooo**

Katrina's eyes fluttered open and she stirred, waking at the sound of Elizabeth squealing all the way from the ground floor. Seconds later she heard the little footsteps running down the hall to greet her Papa at the door. A smile spread across her face at the sound but instantly morphed into a wince as she made the mistake of turning onto her side.

Her body ached and she was utterly fatigued. She lay still now, listening to the muffled voices downstairs, to the sounds of big and small footsteps as Ichabod and Elizabeth made their way to the drawing room and closed the door. Then silence again. It would be about an hour before Ichabod made his way up to bed unless his concern for her got the better of him and he postponed his play time with Elizabeth. No doubt she was already explaining that Mamma had had a bad night and was still in bed. She closed her eyes again and tried to relax but she was unable to put the previous night's activities out of her mind and too apprehensive about what was to come, particularly where it concerned Ichabod.

She had grown up with the supernatural and with magic, had practiced it her whole life, and when Ilona told them the story of the countess and the undead she didn't question for a moment the possibility that it could be real for she was aware of the odd, unexplainable things that existed in this world.

And yet that still hadn't completely prepared her for what she'd just witnessed in the cemetery a few hours earlier.

Even worse, Ichabod was going to encounter what she'd seen; in fact it was remarkable that, working nearly every single night as he did, he _hadn't_ run into these fiends already. But it was inevitable that he would soon, for it was at night that they prowled. And if _she_ hadn't been totally prepared for what she witnessed, even with her experience in that province, she could only barely imagine how shocking and devastating it would be for Ichabod, who was so high-strung and still in deep denial about such things. This prospect terrified her even more than the things she had seen.

She could only thank all that was good that at least she'd met Ilona, who knew and had informed her about what was happening; and that she had bought Ichabod's crucifix, which was now securely attached to his uniform jacket once again, ensuring his protection. But she didn't know how she could possibly prepare him for the reality of these creatures and chances were he wouldn't believe it until he'd seen it with his own eyes anyway – no doubt he would say she was taking Ilona's fairytales and folklore too much to heart.

Besides, if she told him what she'd seen she would also have to reveal exactly when and where she'd seen it. When he learned that she was not only walking about the city streets at midnight but roaming around in a desolate, deserted area outside of the city proper he was sure to have a minor convulsion.

It was a conversation that would not end well.

Perhaps an hour had passed or maybe longer when she heard Ichabod climbing the stairs. She turned onto her side facing away from his side of the bed, regretting the hasty movement as her over-strained muscles complained. She closed her eyes, lying still as he opened the door quietly. He moved about in silence, closing the door and undressing, then he eased himself into bed carefully, obviously believing she was still asleep and taking great pains not to wake her. His arms slipped around her, he drew her close and kissed her ear.

"I know you're awake," he murmured. "Are you hiding from me?"

She lay still for a minute, her heartbeat quickening. Then she sighed and slowly, gingerly turned to face him and inched closer, returning his embrace and kissing him on the lips. Then he drew back and probed her face with undisguised concern.

"I'm sorry, I'm very tired," she offered sheepishly.

"Hmm. Elizabeth told me you had a 'bad night', to quote her directly."

Katrina laughed softly. "She was quoting me. How…how was your shift? Did you ever speak to the woman that the doctor told you about?"

"Grace Bartlett. No, not yet. Doctor Camden is going to introduce me and then I'll speak with her. It would be awkward for me to simply appear at her house and start asking questions about a wound on her neck."

"Yes, when you put it that way."

"And you are changing the subject. What is going on, Katrina?" he asked gently.

"What do you mean?"

He sighed and reached out, beginning to stroke her cheek gently. "I mean, Stephen gave me a few more details. He told me he heard noise in the house last night at around three o'clock in the morning and got up to investigate, thinking that a prowler had broken in. Instead he discovered you and your friend Ilona in the sitting room upstairs...doing...something...he really had no idea what you were doing. What _were_ you doing? And why was Ilona here in the middle of the night?"

Katrina sighed again. She should have known that Stephen, with his acute hearing and alertness, would hear them, no matter how quiet they kept.

"Ilona came over to help me put protection on the house," she answered finally.

"At three o'clock in the morning?" he exclaimed, incredulous.

"Yes."

His eyes narrowed and she fought the urge to avert her gaze away from his steady piercing stare.

"Don't you think this is just a little bit excessive, Katrina?"

"No. Summer is almost here and soon it will be very hot. We'll need to leave the windows open."

"Is there some sort of problem with leaving the windows open?"

She hesitated for a minute then answered. "Yes. An open window is an automatic invitation."

He groaned and shook his head.

"Ichabod, I don't know how to tell you…but there are things you need to know…"

"Has the entire city gone mad? Tonight on my beat I ran into Stephen's friend Nicholas…"

"Nicholas?"

"I'm certain that is who he was, though he told me his name was Miklós Székely. He recognized Ilona's name when I mentioned it."

"Yes, that's him. Miklós is his Magyar name. Ilona said he usually uses his American name. I suppose he thought you were special. I don't know if you remember, but at dinner the other night she mentioned the Székely family."

"Oh, yes. I didn't remember the name. Anyway, it must have been four o'clock in the morning when I encountered him on Coenties Slip. He was on the ground, kneeling over yet another victim, and I thought maybe he was the culprit. I saw him holding what looked like a weapon over his head, he was poised to plunge it into the body…I assumed it was a knife. It wasn't."

Katrina stiffened. She knew what it was even before he said it. "Oh?"

"No, it was a wooden stake. The boy insisted that the man wasn't dead and that he had to drive the stake through his heart to ensure that he was. I've never heard anything so ridiculous, save for when Ilona suggested that this was a successful method in her country two hundred years ago…"

"Ichabod…"

He paused and took a deep breath. "Forgive me. I shouldn't insult your friend...it's only that I believe you are both being carried away by superstition. And I don't know this boy's family but why on earth are they allowing him to roam the streets in the middle of the night at all, yet alone to stake corpses through the heart?"

"Was the body that you found him with one of your victims…I mean with the same…marks on the neck and everything?"

"Yes." Ichabod leaned in and kissed her again. "I shouldn't be discussing these gruesome things with you..."

"I told you I don't mind. I'm very interested in this."

"Alright, love. But let's talk more about it later. I'm quite tired."

They settled into each other's arms. Katrina buried her face in his shoulder and closed her eyes. Despite the fact that he didn't want to speak of 'gruesome' things with her she knew that he was really avoiding a discussion about the supernatural, about anything outside of the logical. A sense of despair enveloped her as she realized for certain that no matter how much she tried to talk about it, even if she did succeed in having a conversation with him later, she would never succeed in convincing Ichabod, short of him witnessing it himself.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Long chapter ahead.

* * *

_**22**__**nd**__**-23**__**rd**__** May, 1804**_

After they'd finished dinner and Elizabeth was in bed Ichabod left the house and made his way to Doctor Camden's home. He'd written earlier in the day to request a meeting and the doctor was expecting him. The servant admitted him, led him into the parlor then he left Ichabod alone in the room and disappeared, shutting the doors behind him as he left.

Ichabod moved about examining the room then he wandered over to the open window and looked out. A constable was making his way along the street. Given the route and the time he knew it was Constable Grey. He watched as Grey stopped underneath one of the lighted lamps near Doctor Camden's home and stood there for a few minutes; he appeared to be listening to something. After a time he moved off toward the end of the street, apparently satisfied that nothing was amiss.

"I wonder what he was listening for," Ichabod murmured to himself.

He leaned out of the window and peered into the street, looking in both directions. Now that Constable Grey had gone the residential street was completely empty. Nobody loitered here.

It was a warm May night and like Doctor Camden everyone had their windows wide open.

_An open window is an automatic invitation._

His wife's words echoed unbidden in his head and he sighed, thinking of their conversation earlier that day. Although he would never dream of dictating to Katrina who she should or should not be friends with he could not help but be disturbed by the preposterous myths that Ilona Vajda insisted on repeating, and in a way he almost wished that Katrina had never met her. He still hadn't received a satisfactory answer as to why the two of them were prowling around the house at three o'clock in the morning. Not that he didn't believe Katrina when she said they were putting protection on the house; he did believe that. He just couldn't believe that they had to do it at three o'clock in the morning.

And who on earth did they think was going to come into the house? It was true that an open window could be an invitation to a thief but Stephen had discovered them while they were apparently charming one of the front windows on the third floor! The house was built of smooth brick. There was no trellis to climb up, no place where someone could get an easy foothold if they wanted to climb up. Only someone with wings or a tall ladder would be able to accept an invitation through an open third floor window; and a tall ladder propped against the front of the house would be rather obvious even to a buffoon like Constable Grey, who patrolled their block as well.

It had been obvious that Katrina had more to say yet she chose not to say it.

"Or perhaps I made it clear that I didn't want to hear it," he spoke softly to himself again.

Besides, Katrina didn't suddenly begin to believe in the supernatural or to practice magic when she met Ilona. These things had always been a part of her life. And she was happy with her new friend, and this was something that made him happy. Even after spending just a little while with them on Sunday evening he could see the sisterly bond that had already formed so quickly between Katrina and Ilona. It was rare to find a friendship like that. And Katrina grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone else, where she never had to be alone. Although she had never complained he'd always understood that moving from a little hamlet like Sleepy Hollow to the big city had required a big adjustment and it couldn't have been easy for her. The city could be so very isolating; he sought out that solitude, but Katrina was not like him. How could he be such a tyrant to begrudge her making a friend?

Ichabod came out of his reverie with a start at the sound of the door shutting behind him and he turned away from the window to greet Doctor Camden.

"Two things, Constable," the doctor began after they'd greeted one another and were seated in two of the chairs around the coffee table. "First, we're both invited to Grace Bartlett's home at noon tomorrow. I wrote to her and explained that you were investigating the epidemic in the city and that there were questions that she might be able to answer. She wrote back and made it clear that she would be happy to help."

"Thank you for arranging a meeting, Doctor Camden. And for…providing a plausible explanation to her as to why I will be asking her questions that are of a personal nature. I cannot imagine how she would have reacted had I simply appeared at her home and asked questions about holes in her neck."

He nodded. "I'm glad to be of service. Second, I conducted examinations on the bodies from last night. As you observed, quite correctly, the wounds on the first body, the one that you brought in at around one o'clock in the morning or so, were indeed closer together and the holes were smaller – that led me to consider a theory, one that…"

"It has occurred to me already that we are dealing with at least two different assassins, using two different sized weapons."

"Yes, that is a definite possibility, and the most likely explanation. But I was thinking of something else actually." Doctor Camden's eye was twitching ever so slightly, signifying that whatever it was that he had to say was making him nervous.

The door to the parlor opened and the servant entered carrying a tray with two cups and saucers, a silver pot, a small pitcher, a covered bowl and a silver flask.

"Ah, just what the doctor ordered," the physician announced with relief. "Thank you, Anthony. Set it on the table here. Can I interest you in some brandy and hot coffee, Constable?"

"Thank you, just plain coffee."

"Oh yes, of course, you're going on duty shortly."

Anthony left the parlor after setting the tray down on the low coffee table before them and shut the doors behind him. Doctor Camden poured out a cup of coffee for Ichabod.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Neither, thank you."

Doctor Camden handed him the saucer with the cup of steaming black coffee then picked up the flask, made a movement as if to pour it into the other cup, and then changed his mind; he settled back in his chair with the flask in his hand, leaving the cup, saucer and pot of coffee untouched on the tray. Ichabod raised an eyebrow at the doctor, then turned his attention to his own drink and raised his cup to his lips.

"Here is what occurred to me," Doctor Camden began again after taking a large gulp from the flask. "Now, this may seem a far-fetched theory, especially as it ties into a theory that we already discussed and refuted, but let me set it forth anyway, simply as something to consider. We can certainly tear it down later if we don't like the theory."

"Alright," Ichabod said tentatively.

"We discussed – and ruled out – the possibility of a parasite inflicting these wounds."

"Because it would have to be an extremely large parasite…"

"Agreed, Constable, and since no one has ever seen a parasite that size it's logical to conclude that such a large parasite doesn't exist, at least until we encounter evidence to the contrary."

"Exactly."

"Let's just for a moment, though, assume that such large parasites _do_ exist; even though no one has ever seen evidence of such a thing let's hypothesize for now. And let's also assume that, if such a thing exists, there would be more than one. And just as there will be variations in color, variations in size between members of any species of animal or plant or insect, there will be variations between these parasites as well, though they are the same type of…insect…or animal."

Ichabod's eyes narrowed. "Yes, that is true. What exactly is your point?"

Doctor Camden took another swig of brandy then answered. "Different sized parasites would have different sized bite radii."

"Bite radii?" Ichabod stared at the doctor, stunned.

He nodded. "If we were to assume that it is some sort of large parasite that is responsible, then the variation in distance between the two holes can be explained by two different size sets of…well, teeth…or whatever we would call the specialized mechanism located in the parasite's mouth that it would use to feed on its prey – specifically to extract blood from its victims. More than one, one creature is smaller than the other, thereby explaining the difference in size and distance between the two teeth or stingers or whatever they are."

For a long time Ichabod continued to stare at him, flabbergasted.

"Have you perchance encountered one of these parasites?" he finally asked.

The doctor laughed. "No, Constable, I cannot say that I have."

"Then what prompted you to entertain such a theory?"

"It's only a theory and I agree that it's unlikely. But it was an idea that occurred to me when I was considering the size difference in the wounds and I thought I should mention it, especially since the theory of a parasite had come up in discussion. There is something unique about these wounds after all and I thought, what if there is some creature with a mouth that is specialized to feed on its prey in this way. Everything about this case is so bizarre, after all. It seems to me that any detail, no matter how small and incidental, any idea is worth mentioning and examining."

"That much is true. And I am glad that you mentioned it," Ichabod replied after a time. "But I find it to be much too far-fetched an explanation. I still believe that we're dealing with one or more human culprits, not giant parasitic creatures, and that they are using weapons of varying size and possibly design."

"Yes, that is the more likely explanation."

"Was there anything else? What about the second body?"

He shook his head. "Nothing you weren't expecting. Same wounds at the carotid artery, no blood left in the body. I'm still writing my report to your superiors, and consulting my notes in order to compose that report. I've made exact measurements of the two sets of holes and those are in my report as well. When I'm finished I'd be happy to pass a copy of the report and the notes on to you for your own review."

"Much appreciated." Ichabod paused. "Do you intend to mention in your report the theory of a parasite with a specialized…?"

"No, Constable. I know better than that. Including such a theory would cause a panic. I would not do so unless I had proof to back it up. If and when that proof becomes apparent I can write a report to that effect but for now I will operate under the same assumption as you. My official preliminary conclusions will be one, that the wounds are being caused by a weapon that has yet to be identified; and two, that the victims were likely killed elsewhere and moved."

"There is no proof of such a thing…"

"I know, but I have to put something down, Constable. My reports on each victim indicate that there was no blood in the bodies. Unless your superiors don't bother to read the report, which is certainly a possibility…"

"A likely possibly," Ichabod remarked bitterly.

"Unless they don't bother to read the report they will ask questions. They will want to know where the blood is if not in the body."

Ichabod sighed. "I suppose it is the best possible…either way they will change their tact and order a search for one or more assassins, which is the step we need to be taking."

But it was a less than satisfactory scenario. It was important that the constabulary begin a search for the assassin, but he knew there would be no rhyme or reason to the search, and certainly no reliance on any facts. His colleagues would simply harass and detain vulnerable people like James Leeds, as they always did.

Ichabod finished his coffee then set his cup and saucer on the tray. Thanking the doctor for his assistance and for the coffee he rose to his feet and prepared to leave. Doctor Camden accompanied him to the door.

"By the way, Constable, you mentioned that when you discovered the second body there was a boy hovering over it, preparing to…stab it with a wooden stake, did you say?"

"He believed that the corpse was not dead...or not dead enough, I suppose," he replied, nodding. "He believed that he needed to drive the stake through the heart to completely kill it."

"I'm curious, what exactly did he think would happen to the corpse after he drove the stake through it? I mean that would prove more so than before he did so that the corpse really was a corpse?"

"I don't know," Ichabod sighed. "It's utter madness as far as I'm concerned."

"Yes, it does seem to be that. Still, it would be interesting to experiment with a wooden stake on the next corpse you bring in, just to see what the fuss was about. After I've completed the post-mortem examination on the corpse in question, of course," he added with a soft laugh.

Ichabod merely shook his head. The idea sounded as silly coming from Doctor Camden as it had from Stephen's friend Nicholas and it was not an experiment he was interested in."Goodnight, Doctor Camden."

"Goodnight, Constable. I'll see you at Grace Bartlett's home at noon tomorrow. And hopefully not before then."

**oooOooo**

Katrina and Stephen moved off to the drawing room after Ichabod left and Katrina shut the door behind them. Each had sought out the other; each had something on their mind. Seated opposite one another in the two armchairs by the fire Katrina could see that he looked worried. She rose and drew her chair closer to his, then covered his hands with hers.

"Stephen, whatever you have to say to me I won't be angry, I promise. Ichabod told me that you spoke to him..."

"I should have spoken to you first, before I mentioned anything to him...I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright. I know that you feel as responsible for our safety as Ichabod does, especially when he is away at night. I ought to have realized how much I'd worry you…"

"I didn't tell Ichabod everything," he blurted out, looking guilty. "I wanted to but I…I couldn't. I didn't know how to tell him without hurting him…"

"What do you mean?"

Stephen averted his gaze and she understood immediately.

"Oh."

He looked up and met her eyes again. His nod was almost imperceptible.

"Katrina, it was extremely dangerous for you to walk there. Ichabod would have had a fit if he knew…"

"Did you follow me all the way to the cemetery, Stephen?"

"I didn't stay," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "It meant I had to leave Elizabeth and Anna here alone. When I saw that Ilona was waiting for you I left you and went back home. I knew you would be safe with her, and it would have been my fault if anything had happened to Elizabeth and Anna when I wasn't here."

She threw her arms around him and hugged him. "Oh, Stephen, I'm sorry," she murmured softly, ruefully. "I put you in a terrible predicament. Forgive me."

A moment later his last words sunk in and she drew back to look at him.

"Did you say that you knew I would be safe with her?" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Nicholas told me about what happens in the cemetery at night. I thought he was just telling stories at first, pulling my leg. Then when Ilona told the same stories, about the same thing the other night..." he trailed off and looked at his hands. "She knows what to do."

"Yes."

"So does Nicholas," he continued. "He goes out with the others sometimes."

"Ichabod said he encountered Nicholas with one of the bodies last night. Stephen, what others?"

"His family. Ilona's friends."

"I see."

They stared at one another solemnly in silence for a time.

"Did you see them?" he asked finally.

She nodded. "Have you seen them?"

He shook his head. "Nicholas described them but I've never seen them. I always make sure that I arrive home before Ichabod leaves. Katrina, Ichabod has to know about this…this is what he is trying to solve and if he has this information…"

"I know. But I don't know how to tell him. He didn't believe Ilona and he won't believe me either. He doesn't even want to hear about it. No, he won't believe it unless he sees it with his own eyes. The day when he does is coming soon and I'm not looking forward to it."

"Neither am I," he said. "But when it comes I'll be here, too. Between the two of us…"

Katrina squeezed his hands in acknowledgement.

**oooOooo**

Incredibly Ichabod did not discover one body on his beat that night. Whether or not anyone else had was something he wouldn't know until he returned to the Watch House. And if they had it was safe to assume that those bodies were burned already; it was unlikely that any of his colleagues would consult the medical school concerning this.

Wearily he walked toward Broad Street when his shift ended at eight o'clock. He was already sleepy and it was four hours before he was expected at Grace Bartlett's home. Going home and sleeping for an hour or two seemed pointless so he planned to spend the time at his desk reading the notes that Doctor Camden had submitted to him so far as well as his own notes.

"Constable Crane," someone called from behind him, a female voice. "Good morning."

He turned around and was surprised to see Ilona Vajda approaching him. She carried a large bundle in both arms. "Good morning, Miss Vajda. What brings you to this area of town?"

"I work here," she replied. "I usually don't open until ten o'clock but there are a few things I need to do this morning."

"You work…in this neighborhood?"

"Yes, my store is right there, in Mesier's Alley."

"Mesier's Alley? Your store is in Mesier's Alley?" he repeated in disbelief.

Ilona hesitated, staring at him in confusion, then she nodded. "Have I said something to upset you, Constable?"

"Oh, no…no…I'm sorry, I simply…I was surprised that you…this neighborhood is not very safe. Forgive me, I didn't mean to be rude."

But he was thinking with dismay of Katrina venturing into Mesier's Alley after he'd explicitly told her to stay on the main streets and avenues, and out of the alleys. And of all the alleys, she'd walked into Mesier's Alley where he'd found several bodies!

"It's not too bad in the day time," Ilona said.

"Yes, but in the night time…Miss Vajda, please be careful. I have found the bodies of several victims in Mesier's Alley."

"I'll be careful. And thank you, Constable Crane."

"Well, I wish you a good day."

"Constable." Something in her voice made him halt. "I've offended you."

Ichabod stared at her, stunned. "No, not at all. What could you have done to offend me?"

"I offended and frightened you with the stories I told you."

"You did neither," he answered defensively. "I've never given credence to the supernatural, that's all." He realized that he likely sounded patronizing and somewhat obnoxious and regretted it. "Perhaps I seem harsh…I…"

She shrugged. "You believe what you believe."

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid _I've_ offended _you_, and I apologize for that. My wife values your friendship very much, Miss Vajda, and I realize that you value hers. Please don't allow my clumsiness or rudeness to taint that in any way."

Ilona's eyes met his and she smiled warmly at him.

"You haven't done anything to offend me either, Constable. I consider your entire family my friends."

He noticed her shifting slightly under the weight of her burden and stepped forward to take it from her.

"Please let me help you with this. It looks heavy and you'll need a free hand to unlock the door, no doubt."

"Thank you. It is heavy."

Ichabod took the bundle from her hands and followed her into the alley. She stopped at a door halfway along the alley; a sign above it read "The Eclectic Traveler". Ichabod had passed by this sign every time he walked through Mesier's Alley on his beat. The name conjured images of journeys to exotic faraway places. He wondered what had drawn Katrina inside.

Ilona unlocked the door and he followed her in.

"You can leave that right on the counter there."

There was very little natural light in the place. The only windows in the store, set on either side of the door they'd just passed through, opened out onto Mesier's Alley and the taller buildings around the shop blocked out much of whatever light came into the alley. There were no windows in the opposite wall, and Ichabod realized that unlike the adjacent buildings Ilona's store did not run all the way through and it did not have an entrance on Broad Street.

She began to light several lamps. Ichabod set the bundle down on the counter near the door and eyed the wares that sat on whatever shelves he could see from his vantage point. He noticed several shelves filled with large jars of herbs and wondered what herbs had to do with travel.

Curiosity got the better of him and he began to walk through the aisles examining everything that Ilona's shop offered. There was some of everything for sale there. Herbs, teas, cookware, rugs, decorative items, clear bottles filled with different colored liquids, clear bottles with nothing at all in them, shiny polished stones, gems, jewelry.

Eclectic indeed.

**oooOooo**

After parting amicably from Ilona Vajda Ichabod went directly to the Watch House. When he arrived he found Constables White and Thompson standing with two coffin bearers before the High Constable's desk, waiting for him to return. Ichabod went straight to the coffin cart and lifted the blanket covering the face.

An ache filled his chest when he beheld the young face of the body on the cart. The victim was a boy of no more than thirteen with a pretty, almost girlish face. Based on his dress, the layer of dirt covering him and the sores on his legs and arms Ichabod knew instantly that the boy had been homeless. He examined the neck and found the familiar holes. With a melancholy sigh he covered the unfortunate young man with the blanket once again.

"It's the same cause of death," he murmured.

"We already know that, Crane," Constable Thompson retorted. "We're as capable of looking at his neck as you are."

"Really? Then I trust you are as capable of transporting him to the medical college without having to consult the High Constable first," Ichabod shot back in his turn. "We do have permission and we are, in fact, under instruction to conduct thorough examinations of these victims now."

Constable Thompson snorted.

"Don't you worry about the examination, Crane," Constable White chimed in. "We know where the medical college is and we'll make sure he finds his way there."

Instead of remaining at the Watch House as he'd originally planned Ichabod went home after all, too depressed to stay there. Not that his colleagues weren't always callous, but seeing them treat such a young victim with their usual level of callousness and indifference was especially painful today. The boy's dark hair and perfectly formed features had somehow already imprinted themselves on his brain. He thought of the boy's clothes, the sores; it seemed he hadn't even had a chance from the start. It made his premature death even more heartbreaking.

It was nearly ten o'clock and only Anna was at home. Katrina and Stephen had taken Elizabeth out. Just as well, he thought. He didn't need to inflict his terrible mood on any of them.

The first thing he did was remove his uniform. He hated the thing and since he'd chosen to come home he took the opportunity to change into his own everyday clothing. His meeting with Grace Bartlett would be on his own time; it was not necessary that he be dressed officially.

Dressed in his regular attire now he went to the drawing room and settled himself at the desk. He opened his ledger to a blank page and sketched the young victim he'd just seen, remarkably remembering each and every detail of the face, compelled to commit it to paper. When he was finished he stared at the sketch, thinking how strange it was that a boy he'd looked at for no more than five minutes had left such a lingering impression on him. And strange that somehow the act of setting the boy's likeness to paper lifted the ache in his chest. At least there was one small tribute to the boy's memory.

He took out Doctor Camden's notes then and spent the next half hour or so reviewing them, turning to his own notes when he'd finished reading the physician's. Unfortunately there was nothing new to glean from either set of notes. He knew that the bodies were being completely drained of blood and he knew that it was through the wounds on the neck that the bodies were being drained. The weapon that could make those marks would be grotesque and Ichabod had already drawn several sketches illustrating his imaginings of what it might look like. But he didn't have a weapon yet, he didn't have a suspect and he didn't have a motive. He could only guess at the motive, each theory more macabre than the next, and his description of the culprits were sketchy at best, based on John Leeds' less than lucid report and his own quick glimpse in a dark alley of a short pale-faced man dressed in a black cape. Hopefully Grace Bartlett would be a more reliable witness.

After a time the sleepiness that he'd felt earlier, and which he'd managed to stave off for a couple of hours, returned and he was suddenly overcome with drowsiness as he continued to pore over the pages. He began to nod off while he was reading, catching himself and waking with a start each time his head fell forward. Finally, after nodding off and waking several times in this way he sat up straight, opened his eyes wide and attempted to shake off his sleepiness. He wanted and needed to be alert. The clock in the room read quarter past eleven. It would take him less than fifteen minutes to walk to Grace Bartlett's house. He therefore didn't have to leave for another half hour. Perhaps a cup of coffee or…

Ichabod didn't remember dozing off. One moment he'd been staring at the clock thinking that he ought to ask Anna for coffee or simply go for a walk, the next moment he was waking up to the sound of his own snoring. His head had lolled back this time instead of drooping forward; his face was tilted up toward the ceiling, his mouth was open. With a groan he opened his eyes and lifted his head, swallowing the saliva that had gathered in his mouth.

Recalling his appointment he panicked and his eyes sought out the clock again. Half past eleven. He exhaled with relief. He'd been asleep for no more than a quarter of an hour. Quickly he gathered his notes and ledger and stood up, not wishing to risk unwittingly falling asleep in the chair again and missing his appointment. He straightened his clothes then left the house and made his way toward Grace Bartlett's home on foot, taking a detour and stopping at one of the coffee houses to drink a cup of strong brew in order to revive somewhat.

The day was lovely, sunny and warm, and there wasn't a cloud in the bright blue sky. Ichabod was therefore surprised to find the curtains and drapes covering every window of the Bartlett house drawn closed when he arrived there. A servant admitted him and took him into the parlor. The drapes in here were drawn so tight that the room was almost completely dark even though the sun was high in the sky at that hour. He could see the outline of the dark lumps that were furniture in the room but nothing more. Somewhere in the room a clock ticked. The servant lit a lamp to his right. She moved about the room lighting the other lamps then left without a word to him.

He shook his head. It seemed ridiculous to light so many lamps at noon on a sunny day instead of simply opening the curtains and in fact he found it downright bizarre. For a long time he stood near the door, examining the room, waiting for his hostess and wondering why she kept her home in darkness. Was this perhaps part of her way of mourning?

His eye located the clock in the room and he noted that it was already late; after quarter past twelve and he hadn't seen Grace Bartlett yet. Doctor Camden had not arrived yet either as far as he knew. Ichabod moved to one of the windows, intending to look up and down the street to check for the doctor's approach. The parlor door opened behind him just as he was reaching out to push aside the drapes.

"Please leave the drapes shut, Constable Crane!" Grace Bartlett called out, panic in her voice, and he whirled around. Her voice softened. "The light bothers me terribly."

"Oh. Forgive me. Doctor Camden told me that you have not been well. I didn't realize sunlight would make you feel worse."

She closed the parlor door gently and moved toward him. She was nearly as tall as he was, with a slim, graceful figure, long blonde hair that she was wearing loose, blue eyes. Although she was quite a lovely young woman he could see how unnaturally pale her complexion was, how anemic she appeared. She was very obviously ill. His eyes sought out the skin of her neck but she was wearing a high-collared dress. The wounds, assuming she still had signs of them, were covered.

"I've been feeling very tired generally," she explained, taking a seat on the sofa facing the window. "But I can no longer abide the sunlight at all. It makes my skin burn and my head split with pain."

"Those are alarming symptoms. How long have you been so ill?"

"I don't know. A few weeks."

"I'm sorry. And I'm sorry for your loss."

"My loss?" she repeated in confusion.

"Your fiancée. I understand that he passed away."

She stared at him for a moment then shook her head. "You're mistaken, Constable. Thomas…my fiancée, that is…is fine. In fact I saw him just last night, Constable."

Doctor Camden had confirmed that her fiancée Thomas Brown was dead, going as far as to show him a copy of the death certificate that he himself had written out. Ichabod opened his mouth to speak but he had no idea what to say to her under the circumstances. She was obviously in denial, as the doctor had ascertained. There was no other explanation, unless they had somehow misidentified the person they'd buried. But that was extremely unlikely.

"Please take a seat, Constable Crane," she said, smiling pleasantly and gesturing to a large high-backed armchair that was placed at a right-angle to the sofa. It was covered in rich dark green velvet. "I don't have a lot of energy and it will be so much easier for me to speak to you this way, without feeling as if I have to shout."

"Oh. Yes, of course."

He moved to the armchair and sat down on the edge of it, leaning forward to address her. She spoke first.

"Doctor Camden told me you wanted to ask me questions about the illness that has afflicted so many people in the city, Constable Crane."

"Yes, I did, and I thank you for taking the time to see me."

"My pleasure, Constable Crane."

"The doctor was supposed to be here, too, but he must be delayed. I've kept him from many of his classes lately so that he could help me and I suppose he has a lot to catch up on."

"Both of you believe that I'm suffering from the very same illness as the others now..."

"It's possible, but I cannot say for sure. Doctor Camden is more qualified to make that assessment. But…" Ichabod took a deep breath then delved right into the issue of the wounds. "Many of the victims of this illness have wounds on their necks, and we believe they might be related. Doctor Camden told me that at the party that you both attended on Saturday night he noticed the same wounds on your neck. Forgive me for alluding to something so personal, but it is relevant. I wanted to ask you if you remember how you received those wounds. Do you remember where you were? Did someone attack you? If you can remember that, perhaps you can give me a description of your attacker, even of the weapon he used. It will help us to track down…"

"I have no memory of any such thing, Constable Crane."

"No memory at all?"

"I'm sorry. I wish I could be more helpful but I have no idea where they came from. They were suddenly…there. I'm sure that's happened to you. Maybe not odd things like this, but a bruise or a cut. It's so easy to get a bruise or a cut without realizing, one can't keep track…Anyway I've been feeling tired for a long time now. And of course the light bothers me so much, and that's quite distressing. It's all very inconvenient, Constable Crane. Constable _Ichabod_ Crane, isn't it? But more than the light, the burning is what is truly alarming. One morning I woke up and felt my arm burning. Literally burning. It was terrifying, it looked like there was smoke coming from my skin. As soon as I moved my arm out of the ray of sunlight I felt better. It was the oddest thing. _Ichabod_. Do you mind if I call you _Ichabod_?"

"What?" Ichabod blinked, suddenly realizing that he had been staring at her with his eyes glazed over while she was speaking, or rather babbling, and the only word of her entire monologue that he'd actually heard was his name. Everything else had simply washed over him.

She was staring intently at his face with an expression that he would only describe as desire or hunger if he didn't find the possibility so unbelievable.

"You don't mind, do you?"

He had no idea what it was she was asking him about and shook his head no. He felt very strange. She smiled at him and he mused that in spite of her unnatural pallor Grace Bartlett was an arrestingly beautiful woman. He blinked again and shook himself, wishing he'd been able to interview her on a day when he wasn't so sleepy and in a fog.

"Yes, it's very inconvenient, _Ichabod_." Her eyes met his now and held them, beautiful deep blue eyes, captivating eyes; he couldn't shift his gaze away from them. "I cannot open the curtains. Worse I cannot go out during the day. It's true, _Ichabod_. Thomas cannot go out during the day either, but that is fine for us, of course, at least we can always be together. _Ichabod_. What a melancholy name, _Ichabod_. A melancholy name for a melancholy young man. Handsome but melancholy. _Ichabod_…_Ichabod_…_Ichabod_…"

The armchair was soft and luxuriously plush, her voice soothing as she repeated his name again and again. Ichabod felt the same utter drowsiness that he'd felt earlier seeping into his body and overwhelming him, his body became heavier and heavier as the sleepiness tugged at his limbs and sucked him downward; he sank deeper and deeper into the armchair, lulled into soporific reverie, thinking distantly and with a tinge of regret how rude he must have seemed to Grace Bartlett, coming into her home and falling fast asleep while she was speaking to him. Her deep blue eyes still held his gaze captive, though he was sure that his own eyes had closed and he was dreaming. The scent of earth wafted across his nostrils, a surprisingly pleasant scent that seemed to surround him. Long slender fingers caressed his jaw line and neck seductively, he felt her breath on his lips, felt her lips brush his. Her breath was hot like fire, her lips were ice cold. Everything around him except for her eyes, her voice, her touch had faded into the background; she was so close to him. He continued to dream. Her lips brushed against his again, her tongue flicked out and explored his lips and skin, his chin began to sting ever so slightly when she licked the spot where he'd nicked himself and bled while shaving the night before…

"Ichabod!"

It seemed to him that there were disembodied noises surrounding him, someone calling his name, sounds that resembled the scuffle of struggling bodies, a woman's shriek. He tried unsuccessfully to lift his heavy head and turn it toward the sounds. His name was being repeated over and over from somewhere, someone was urging him to wake up, and he vaguely and detachedly wondered if perhaps he had fainted. He didn't remember fainting. Was he drugged? Had someone drugged him? He couldn't remember drinking anything, nor could he remember being served anything at all. He heard his name once again and reached toward it with his mind, becoming aware now of his body sitting slumped in a chair, of pressure on his shoulders.

"Ichabod Crane!"

A hard slap across his face finally jolted Ichabod out of his stupor and he awakened with a jerk. Doctor Camden stood in front of the chair, leaning over him, one hand grasping his shoulder, the other one poised to slap him again. The doctor's face was a mask of alarm, the color drained out of it.

"Are you alright, Constable Crane?"

Ichabod blinked up at him, dazed. His body was as limp as a ragdoll, he was slumped all the way down in the chair. "What…what happened?" he managed to utter, completely confused, his voice hoarse.

"I'll explain later," he said urgently. "We have to get out of here. Come on, get up."

Every muscle in Ichabod's body was completely relaxed and he remained limp in the chair for a moment.

"Come _on_, Constable, quickly!" he urged desperately, and without waiting for Ichabod to respond Doctor Camden seized him under his arms, lifted him up out of the chair and set him on his feet, bracing him with his body to steady him until he was certain that Ichabod was able to balance on his feet on his own. Ichabod recovered his bearings enough to see that they were still in Grace Bartlett's parlor.

Bright sunlight streamed into the room. Ichabod looked to his left and saw that the drapes on all of the windows had been pulled all the way open. His eyes widened and he gasped audibly at the sight of Grace Bartlett herself sprawled on the floor, writhing and moaning in excruciating pain in the large patch of sunlight. Ichabod gaped at the curls of smoke that seemed to rise from her skin, as if it were literally smoldering.

"What…what is…?" Ichabod began, but Doctor Camden grabbed his arm and began to drag him toward the parlor door at a run.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Another long chapter ahead. :)

* * *

**_23__rd__-24__th__ May, 1804_**

Too bewildered and disoriented to resist, Ichabod simply allowed Doctor Camden to drag him, running, out of Grace Bartlett's parlor, past the alarmed-looking servant in the hallway, out the door and down to the end of the street. He hailed the first cab that approached and pushed Ichabod into it. Then he got in and directed the driver to Ichabod's home.

"Thank God I arrived there in time."

Ichabod turned and stared at him. Doctor Camden's face was as white as a sheet and a deep purple bruise was forming on his left cheek. He was trembling terribly. "What happened to _you_?" he asked.

"Don't worry about me. I have to go back to the college but I want to check you over and make certain you're alright first. I'm taking you home."

"Check me over? Why?"

With a shaking hand he gestured in the direction of Ichabod's torso. Ichabod looked down at himself and was shocked and truly alarmed to discover that someone had begun to undress him; and that they'd managed to do so without his being remotely aware of it. His frock coat was unbuttoned down to his stomach, as was his white shirt, and his cravat had been removed.

"Here," Doctor Camden said, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a white bundle. He held it out. "It was on the floor near the chair."

Taking it from his hand Ichabod saw that it was his cravat. "On the floor…?" he repeated in confusion. He couldn't fathom how or why his cravat had managed to find its way onto the floor of Grace Bartlett's parlor.

"Will you allow me to make certain you're physically alright?"

Having discovered his state of disarray Ichabod was too stymied to argue with him, and Doctor Camden reached over, pushing the collar of his shirt away and examining his neck carefully. Satisfied he then inspected his stomach and the rest of the exposed skin beneath his open shirt.

"Are you looking for puncture wounds?" Ichabod exclaimed when the realization hit him.

"Yes. Of course we haven't seen wounds like that anywhere but on the neck, but I wish to be certain since she opened your coat and shirt."

Ichabod's eyes widened. "You thought that I received the same puncture wounds? In Grace Bartlett's…do you actually believe that Grace Bartlett of all people is our assassin and that she attacked me?"

"I know what I saw. That is why she removed your cravat, Constable, to leave your neck bare."

"What?" he gasped, breathlessly. "Did you see the weapon she used...?"

"I need to process it myself, Constable Crane, because I'm...she didn't have a weapon per se. Not in the sense that we were thinking of a weapon. Her teeth were her weapon, you see."

"I…I beg your pardon?" he stammered, certain that he hadn't heard the doctor correctly.

"It looks like I may have the proof I needed for my parasite and bite radii theory after all." Despite his own shocked state Doctor Camden looked somewhat pleased with himself.

Ichabod stared at him. "And you believe that Grace Bartlett is what…a human parasite?"

"Or perhaps not human at all," he said hesitantly.

"I…see. And you believe that she…tried to…?"

"Feed on you. Yes, that is what I believe. You probably think I'm insane but I know what I saw. You were not…aware…of what was going on. She did something to you. I cannot explain it…it looked like she had you under some sort of spell..." He trailed off and leaned back in his seat, bringing a hand to his brow and rubbing it, exhaling heavily. "I'm just relieved that I arrived when I did and that you're alright. I had hoped to be there sooner, at noon as we were scheduled, but I was delayed." He shook his head. "We have much to discuss about this, Constable Crane. Unfortunately I have to return to the medical school. And frankly I think you'd better rest before you're confronted with all of it. Is it alright if we meet this evening? I'll come to your home this time if that's easier."

"Alright," Ichabod murmured absently, feeling overwhelmed. He sank back in his seat wearily and closed his eyes, trying to conjure up an image of Grace Bartlett's parlor, to recall what had happened there. If, as Doctor Camden said, she had attempted to kill him how had he slept through it? Surely the disturbance should have woken him. His mind wandered and he remembered sitting down to speak with Grace Bartlett, remembered her repeating his name again and again like a mantra, lulling him into slumber, effortlessly for he'd been so tired before he even arrived. Had he even managed to ask her any of the questions he'd intended to? If he had he couldn't recall her answers. He only remembered falling deeply asleep, unable to resist it, and dreaming of Grace Bartlett's hypnotic eyes and voice. Then Doctor Camden was there suddenly, waking him.

Had he really slept through Grace Bartlett nearly murdering him? Or was he under some sort of odd spell, as the doctor had suggested, and not asleep at all? He thought of the way she repeated his name again and again, punctuating each sentence with it. Was that how she did it?

"We're here, Constable," Doctor Camden said, tapping him on the shoulder, and Ichabod opened his eyes, noticing that the cab had stopped. "What time shall I come back here tonight?"

Realizing suddenly that his clothing was still half undone, Ichabod hastily buttoned his shirt and frock coat and tied his cravat around his neck. He didn't wish for Katrina, if she was home, to see him in such a state of disarray. She would worry and ask questions.

"I'd prefer if you didn't come before nine o'clock tonight, Doctor Camden," he replied. "I will need to sleep for several hours."

Doctor Camden opened the door and climbed out of the cab so that Ichabod could get out on that side.

"Will you be alright?" he asked. "Perhaps I should walk with you…?"

"That will not be necessary. I am perfectly capable of walking into the house by myself, and in fact you assisting me would only alarm my family if they happen to have returned home."

He bid the doctor good day and walked to his front door, pausing when he reached the top step of his stoop, feeling Doctor Camden watching him and realizing that he hadn't heard the sound of the horses' hooves drawing the cab off. Ichabod turned around and waved at him, mouthing that he was fine. Doctor Camden nodded and climbed back inside the cab. Ichabod turned and entered the house.

To his dismay Katrina came hurrying out of the parlor and into the hall to greet him. He'd been hoping that the family was still out and that he could make his way up to bed without encountering anyone. She must have been sitting at the window waiting for him, he thought with a sigh.

"Ichabod!" she exclaimed. "Are you alright? You look awful!"

"I'm fine," he replied gruffly. "I am only tired."

She accompanied him upstairs to their room and sat down on the bed, watching him with a peculiar expression as he undressed.

"You do not need to hover over me, Katrina," he snapped somewhat irritably, feeling uncomfortable now with her staring at him in that way. "I am just fine."

Katrina bit her lip, visibly upset, then looked down and folded her hands in her lap. He turned away and finished undressing and readying himself for bed. She was concerned for his welfare of course and God only knew what he looked like after trying to rearrange himself and his clothing in the cab; he must have been a frightful sight for her. But he really wasn't in the mood to answer questions or to even face Katrina at all. Judging from Doctor Camden's face and his shaken up state there was no doubt that something terrible had happened, or nearly happened, in that parlor, happened to _him_ and yet he had no awareness, no recollection of it whatsoever. He only had Doctor Camden's very vague, cagey description of it. The whole thing was both frightening and extremely embarrassing. And how could he possibly explain to Katrina that he'd somehow come to be half-undressed in the parlor of another attractive young lady and had no memory of when or how it had happened?

He draped his clothes over the back of the large chair in the room and turned toward her again. "I'm sorry, Katrina," he muttered, unable to look at her directly. "It has been a long shift and I'm exhausted. I…"

"I wasn't certain where you had gone," she blurted out suddenly. "You left your uniform jacket."

He stared at her now, confused for a minute. "Oh. Yes. I didn't have to meet Miss Bartlett until noon so I came home and changed into plain clothes before I went. I loathe that uniform."

"You were not protected," she said softly, looking worried. "You were in danger."

"Didn't Miss Vajda say that I only needed that crucifix with me at night? I didn't think it was necessary for me to carry it during the day. Besides, it is affixed to the inside of the pocket. It would be difficult…"

"She said especially at night. But you should have it with you always, Ichabod. Promise me you'll keep it with you from now on."

Ichabod sighed wearily.

"Promise me," she repeated firmly.

He moved to the bed silently and took a seat beside her.

"I mean it, Ichabod. When you walked in the door you looked…what happened to you? I'm really worried. I'll buy you another one that you can carry with you at other times and leave the one in your jacket…"

"Please, Katrina. I need to sleep for a few hours. I cannot think straight right now."

"Promise me that you'll keep a crucifix with you at all times from now on," she insisted.

Anxiety and concern were written all over her face, and he felt suddenly that he was being cruel. Nothing that had happened was her fault and he had no right to take it out on her.

"Alright, love," he conceded, drawing her into an embrace. "From now on I will not leave the house without one." Ichabod pressed her against him tightly and kissed her brow tenderly. "Please forgive me for my grumpiness today."

Katrina remained sitting on the edge of the bed watching him while he slipped under the blankets and stretched out. He settled onto the pillow, feeling overcome with exhaustion, and she leaned over and kissed his forehead tenderly.

"Sleep well, Ichabod," he heard her whisper in his ear as he drifted off to sleep.

**oooOooo**

"Here, this is one that will fit him nicely," Ilona said, gently setting the thick silver chain into the palm of her hand.

Katrina examined it then slipped the crucifix onto the chain. "It's lovely. Though I'm certain he'll wear it underneath his clothing anyway, so no one will see it."

They moved to the front of the store and Ilona slipped behind the counter to retrieve a small box. She slipped the necklace with the crucifix into it, then closed it and wrapped it in paper. Katrina handed her the coins and took the small package.

"Thank you." She paused, trembling as she thought of the way Ichabod looked when he walked in the door. "He promised me that he'll keep it with him all of the time, but the other one is affixed to his uniform jacket. At least now he will have one that he can take with him any time, not just when he is working."

Ilona covered her hand with hers, squeezing it reassuringly.

"When he came home this afternoon…I know you saw him in the morning but something may have happened between the time you saw him and when he came home." She sighed. "It was just… disturbing to see him looking that way. Ichabod is a meticulous dresser. His hair is often unruly," she laughed as she thought of it. "But his clothing…for as long as I've known him he is always well-put together in his dress. When he walked in today his cravat was tied haphazardly and his frock coat was buttoned crookedly…as if he'd dressed hurriedly and without seeing himself. It was odd."

"You said you checked his neck carefully…"

"Yes, it was clear. And just in case I checked the rest of his body while he slept. I didn't see any marks that looked like they would have been made by fangs such as they have."

"Then there is no need to fear."

Ilona gestured to the other chair by the counter. It was a new chair that she'd brought into the store since Katrina had last been in. Katrina took a seat and they spent the next hour chatting, pausing only when a customer entered and Ilona stood up to assist them. At around half past three Katrina bid her goodbye and went home. She went upstairs to their bedroom where Ichabod still lay asleep and quietly withdrew the new silver chain with the crucifix. As usual Ilona had slipped an extra little gift into the package without her seeing it, today a grey cloth pouch tied with a thin white ribbon. She untied the little sack and poured onto the bed the contents, which turned out to be various small polished stones; some black onyx for protection, agate for strength, moonstone for good fortune, cats eye for insight, turquoise to protect from harm and to symbolize friendship. Katrina smiled and gathered the stones up, returning them to the small cloth pouch and tying it closed again.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed she leaned over and studied her husband as he slept. She could feel how deeply he slumbered. The memory of the night in the cemetery was still vivid in her mind, the way the skin of the vampires, or _kalandornô _as Ilona called them, began to sear when Ilona pressed the crucifix into their forehead or their arm, the way it left a red, smoking mark in the shape of a cross on them when they pulled away. Nervously she held the cross out toward Ichabod, stopping just before it touched the skin of his arm. She hesitated for a time, her heart thudding in her chest, then she finally moved the cross closer, allowing it to just barely skim the surface of his flesh.

Nothing happened. When she lifted it away she saw that the skin was clear; not a mark had been left nor had the object singed him at all. Mustering her courage she set it down firmly on his bare arm now, pressing it ever so slightly. Once again there was no searing of the skin and Ichabod didn't stir in his sleep at all.

Sighing with relief and feeling somewhat foolish she slipped off of the bed. Crouching down silently she withdrew the small chest of herbs and tinctures and oils from under the bed, stood up and carried it out of the room. Elizabeth was taking a nap after a long active morning and early afternoon and Stephen had gone to meet Nicholas after she returned from her trip to Ilona's shop. The only sounds in the house came from the kitchen, where Anna was preparing dinner. Katrina went downstairs and settled down in the drawing room, taking out the vial of protection oil, anointing the new necklace, chanting softly. When she had finished charming it she returned to the bedroom and slid the chest, which now contained the new little pouch of gemstones, back underneath the bed. Then she sat beside Ichabod and tried the experiment again, now with the charmed necklace. There was no effect on his skin and he continued to sleep soundly. Katrina sighed with relief again, leaned down and kissed his lips tenderly.

**oooOooo**

Normally on days when Ichabod arrived home particularly distressed even just a few hours of good, deep sleep quieted him somewhat. This evening, however, he was even more markedly disturbed, agitated even, when he woke and emerged from the bedroom. Thinking of the state of his clothing when he'd arrived earlier Katrina began to wonder if he had indeed been physically attacked earlier that day. She hadn't found evidence of puncture wounds or any prominent bruising, and the crucifix had no effect on him. Still, though she'd done a fairly thorough examination of him while he slept perhaps she had missed something.

He was quiet and preoccupied all through dinner, he barely ate and whenever she spoke to him his replies were short retorts. Even Elizabeth who always looked forward to chatting with her papa when he was finally awake in the evening was unusually subdued during the meal, understanding that something was wrong.

The doorbell rang as they were moving to the drawing room after they'd finished eating and Ichabod went to answer it. Several minutes later he joined them in the drawing room. He was reading a note in his hands and the expression on his face was one of disappointment and worry.

"Do you have to go in early?" Katrina asked softly.

"No," he replied with a shake of his head and sat down at the desk.

Stephen continued to read quietly with Elizabeth, helping her pick out the letters and sound them out. Katrina sat in one of the chairs by the fire watching Ichabod writing, a grimace on his face as he worked. He finished the note he was composing then stood up and left the drawing room, no doubt to hand it off to the messenger.

"Mamma, is Papa angry?"

"I think Papa is frustrated at work, Pumpkin."

"Is frustrated like being angry?"

"A little bit," she replied, rising from the chair and moving to join the two of them on the floor. She held out an arm and Elizabeth scrambled over to snuggle into her embrace, settling her head against Katrina's chest. Katrina tenderly ran her fingers through her hair. "It's more of a feeling of disappointment, but it can include feeling annoyed, feeling angry. He isn't angry at you, though. Were you worried about that?"

She felt Elizabeth shrug.

"Elizabeth, if either of us is ever angry at you we'll tell you, alright?"

Elizabeth nodded.

"Papa is not angry at you, he's not angry at me, and he's not angry at Stephen either."

"He probably won't want to read to me when I get into bed."

Katrina squeezed her tightly and kissed the top of her head. "It's not that he won't want to. He is simply preoccupied. But I'll read to you when you get into bed and then tomorrow, when Papa is feeling better, he'll read to you."

This seemed to appease Elizabeth and after leaning up to kiss Katrina she slipped out of her embrace and went back to read with Stephen.

Later, after Elizabeth was in bed and Stephen had gone to his own bedroom Katrina approached Ichabod to ask him what was wrong. He refused to answer. And when she pressed him, pleaded with him to tell her what had happened he rounded on her savagely. She had never heard him speak in that manner, not to her, not to anyone. Katrina exited the drawing room swiftly, leaving him alone, and went up to their room, resisting the urge to slam the door behind her, the tears beginning to flow because she had to bite back the scream of frustration that welled up inside of her.

After awhile she calmed down and thought to undress for bed; but she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep for some time so instead she withdrew the small chest from under the bed again, took out several packets of herbs and took them downstairs to the kitchen. Quietly she lit a fire and began to brew some tea, chanting softly as she added each ingredient and stirred.

She felt Ichabod enter the room when the tea was nearly done, felt him standing just inside the doorway watching her, but she didn't turn around to look at him. After several minutes she heard his footsteps as he approached cautiously.

"Katrina," he said quietly.

"I thought you had left for work already," she remarked flatly, keeping her back to him.

He inched closer to her and hesitantly placed a hand on her waist. She continued to stir the brew.

"I'm leaving shortly." He paused and she sensed how uncomfortable he was. "I wanted to apologize for the way I spoke to you. It was inexcusable."

"Yes," she replied.

"I'm sorry."

She lifted the pot off of the fire and set it aside to cool, then turned to face him. "Are you working late in the morning?"

"No, I don't think so. Katrina…" he trailed off. Both of his arms encircled her waist now and he grasped her tentatively in an embrace. She didn't push him away but nor did she respond; she was still upset. He leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers, speaking softly. "I'm sorry. I regret it more than I can say. Please forgive me."

"Will you tell me what happened?"

"I…I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because it is utterly humiliating for me," he muttered.

Katrina drew back and looked into his face. "I don't understand."

Ichabod just shook his head.

"Humiliating?" she repeated.

"I…Doctor Camden related some of what happened to me. He was supposed to come here this evening to explain more but something happened at the school and he couldn't come."

"That is what the note you received was about."

"Yes."

"You said that he related what happened to _you_?"

"I…I was unaware while it was happening…and I have no recollection. He had to explain. Please don't ask me anything more about it."

Her eyes narrowed as she studied his face intently, and she began to wonder if perhaps he'd been attacked psychically. She could help him if that were the case.

"Did you have any bad dreams when you slept this afternoon?"

"Katrina…"

"Alright, Ichabod," she said softly, thinking that now was not the time to press him further.

But he sighed and nodded. "I did dream but I don't remember it. Only the feeling of it…I don't know how to describe it."

"Was it a pleasant feeling?"

"No. And yes," he replied softly, looking troubled. "It was both…but there was something so disturbing about it. Even the pleasantness was disturbing."

"Maybe I could help you remember."

"I'd rather remember my truly pleasant dreams, though I have less of those."

"Not the dream. If you want to remember your dreams there is a tea I can brew for you that will make your thoughts so clear when you sleep you will remember every one of your dreams vividly and in detail. I was speaking of the things that happened today."

His eyes widened. "How could you possibly do that?"

Katrina lowered her eyes, searching for a way to explain it that wouldn't alarm him.

"I would only do it with your consent," was all she said, raising her eyes to meet his gaze again.

"Do what?"

"Help you remember," she replied elusively, though she knew he was looking for a more specific answer.

Ichabod studied her for several moments then sighed again and gave her a reproachful look. "I see."

"It is more…invasive…than other work that I do. I would never do it without your permission, without your consent. If and when you are ready and you wish for me to do it you can tell me."

"Thank you," he murmured gratefully. "You probably didn't have to tell me about this. I imagine you could have done whatever it is without me knowing."

"Yes. But that would be unfair and a violation of your privacy."

He pulled her against his body in a tight embrace and kissed her lips. This time she slipped her arms around him and responded. Then she walked with him to the front door, watching him as he pulled on his uniform jacket. His eyes caught her gaze and he patted the left pocket of his jacket, smiling wanly. With a small smile of her own and a nod she moved closer to him and began to button his jacket for him. He gazed at her tenderly while she worked on the buttons then when she'd finished he folded her into his arms again and she felt his lips graze her ear softly.

"I am a fool," he murmured with a sad sigh, "a weak fool."

"No, you're not," she replied fiercely, turning her face toward his. "You are not weak and you are not a fool."

Ichabod squeezed her tighter and buried his face in her neck. They stood that way for several minutes. Then he finally raised his head, kissed her lips and released her. Katrina watched him go out into the dark night, her face creased with worry. Halfway up the block he turned to face her again and waved. She smiled and waved back, and then he turned and went on his way.

A wave of apprehension and sadness washed over her as she watched him disappear at the end of the street and she began to cry.

**oooOooo**

That night Ichabod was happy to be given desk duty. He was still stunned and shaken up from the day's events, and the postponement of his meeting with Doctor Camden until the morning meant more hours of being in the dark about what had happened. He sat at his desk distracted, replaying in his mind the things Doctor Camden had said during the cab ride from Grace Bartlett's home.

"_I know what I saw. That is why she removed your cravat, Constable, to leave your neck bare…she didn't have a weapon per se. Not in the sense that we were thinking of a weapon. Her teeth were her weapon, you see."_

It sounded like something out of Ilona Vajda's story or Katrina's Iroquois tale but he found that he couldn't easily dismiss it, especially when he had no recollection of the events and wasn't even aware of them while they were occurring. And he couldn't dismiss Doctor Camden. There was no doubt that Doctor Camden was nervous and quite eccentric, but he was also clear-headed and intelligent, brilliant in fact. As disturbing as his theory of large parasites was Ichabod couldn't help but admit that there was logic in it. The doctor wasn't telling imaginative stories or repeating folklore; he had examined the bodies, had considered the matter from a scientific viewpoint and had reasonably formed a theory; and now claimed to have proof of his theory in Grace Bartlett.

If the doctor's theory was true and Grace Bartlett was one of these creatures it meant that these parasites not only appeared human, they blended in and mingled with humans, living like them in houses with lovely parlors and servants. How would it be possible to tell one from the other then?

Ichabod remembered his puzzlement at the sight of the drawn curtains when he first approached the house, the dark parlor that Grace Bartlett's servant had led him into, how confused he'd been when she lit every candle in the room instead of simply opening the drapes. And he recalled the sight of her writhing on the floor after Doctor Camden woke him. It appeared to him as if her skin were smoldering, curls of fumes rising from it. But that was impossible. It had to be a figment of his imagination…

"Crane."

Constable Thompson was suddenly standing in front of his desk.

"Wake up, Crane. You have a visitor."

Ichabod looked at him in confusion.

"A suspect that we brought in for questioning."

"And you wish that _I_ should question him?" he asked warily. It was unusual for Constable Thompson to forego an opportunity to rough up a suspect. "What is this about?"

"Well, he did specifically ask for you," Constable White piped up from the doorway. "We figured we'd oblige him."

"Of course we could have simply ignored him, but we figured we'd humor him, especially after listening to some of his spewing," Thompson added.

White approached, dragging the person in question behind him. He pushed him toward the desk and Ichabod found himself face to face with James Leeds once again.

"I suppose you're both humoring _me_ as well," he muttered. He was distrustful of both of his colleagues' intentions for consulting and involving him.

Thompson heard him and began to guffaw.

"Was he found with another body?" Ichabod asked, ignoring his outburst.

"No, there was no body," White answered. "We found him lurking about on Frankfort Street. He was carrying this."

Ichabod stared at the wooden stake that White set down on the desk in front of him. He picked it up and ran his finger along the pointed edge. Dark ash came off of the smooth wood surface and stained his finger.

"Just what did you intend to do with that?" Thompson demanded, shoving him down into the chair across from Ichabod.

"It isn't mine," James Leeds insisted. "And I wasn't 'lurking'. You always say I'm lurking when all I'm doing is standing or sitting or walking…"

Thompson cut him off with a cuff on the side of his head. "You just happened to pick it up off the ground before we arrived, is that it?"

"There was someone else there before me. It's his, but he left it there. I simply picked it up."

"And where is this 'someone else'?" He raised his hand to strike him again. "I suppose he disappeared in a puff of smoke, too..."

"Thank you, Constable Thompson," Ichabod interrupted him firmly. "You brought him over to speak with me. I shall deal with him myself, if you don't mind."

Thompson frowned at him.

"You did say that _I_ have a visitor. I shall deal with him myself, thank you."

Both of his colleagues lingered for a minute but when Ichabod stared at them crossly they burst out laughing and left the room. James Leeds leaned forward.

"You never come to Cherry Street, Constable Crane."

"The Cherry Street area isn't my beat."

"And I suppose you don't live near there either. There is no reason why anyone would want to go there if they didn't have to."

"No."

"It's a pretty terrible place. But there are free spaces to sleep there."

Ichabod didn't answer. Leeds sulked in his seat.

"Thompson and White are both buffoons."

"You won't get any argument from me about that."

"Cherry Street isn't their beat either though, is it? There is another constable that patrols there. I don't know his name. He is always trying to push me into one of the alms houses, but I don't want to go there."

Ichabod suppressed a sigh. The conditions in the alms houses were despicable and he couldn't blame James Leeds for wanting to stay out of them. They were situated on the Commons at the very edge of the city of course, where the rich and more privileged citizens didn't have to see them, didn't have to know of their existence. People such as James Leeds were shoved in there to earn their keep making buttons or other such things, exploited as cheap labor in exchange for a hard cold place to sleep and meager sustenance. Still, sleeping on the street was certainly not safe or healthy for anyone either. There had to be another option but nobody had come up with any ideas, nor did anyone seem interested in trying.

"Cherry Street is not their beat either, no," he answered, "but the two of them do seem to be inclined to go there looking for you anyway."

He did not add that if they were in that area they ought to have brought James Leeds to the jail on the Commons both times, rather than dragging him all the way down to the Broad Street Watch House, which was at the other edge of the city from where they'd been. That in and of itself raised Ichabod's suspicions of their intentions.

"See? I told you, they are out to persecute me."

"Yes. I suppose I might have asked them why they were so far from their assigned area but unfortunately I have very little authority here."

"What about your superiors? Can they do nothing about them?"

He shook his head apologetically then indicated the wooden stake. "What were you doing with this?"

"I told you, I picked it up out of the big pile of ash on the ground, I swear."

"You said there was someone else there."

"Five people actually, but there was nothing I could do for _her_."

"What do you mean? There was nothing you could do for whom?"

Leeds became silent suddenly.

"Mr. Leeds, please just start from the beginning and tell me everything you saw."

"I was walking on Pearl Street, on my way home…on my way to Cherry Street. When I reached Frankfort Street I heard…I don't know what I heard but I had to see what was going on. There were four men struggling with a woman…actually one of them was a boy not a man…he was fairly small. He was the one who held that stake. I hurried toward them thinking to help the woman. Of course those two clowns arrived afterward instead of being there when they were actually needed."

"Four men were attacking a woman, then?"

"Well, three men and one boy."

"Constables White and Thompson said that there was no body. Obviously these men didn't kill her or harm her enough that she couldn't walk away…"

"There was no body because it dissolved into ash, Constable Crane."

Ichabod leaned back in his chair and spoke curtly. "Thank you, Mr. Leeds. You may go."

"Go? But there is more…"

"That will be enough. You are obviously cooperating with Constables Thompson and White to make a fool of me and I am not in the mood…"

"No!"

"Last time you were here you talked about a man who vanished in a puff of smoke. Today you are talking about a woman who dissolved into ash."

"Why would I want to cooperate with those two, of all people? And why would I want to make a fool of you? You're the only constable I've ever talked to who is a decent man. I swear I'm telling the truth, I was the other time too. The body dissolved into a big pile of ash. I'll swear on a bible…"

"That will not be necessary," he said with an exasperated sigh. He glanced at the clock, noting that it was nearly four o'clock in the morning. Had it been closer to the end of the shift he might have dismissed James Leeds. As it was he had a few more hours and nothing better to do. "Very well, Mr. Leeds, for now I shall proceed under the assumption that you are not attempting to make a fool of me and that you are indeed sincere. What exactly happened _before_ the body dissolved into a big pile of ash? And please be as detailed as possible."

"The smaller one, the boy, took that and stabbed her with it," Leeds replied, indicating the wooden stake that lay on the desk between them, and Ichabod couldn't help but think of Stephen's friend Nicholas.

"The boy…stabbed her…with that…"

"Right here, in the heart," he added, indicating his chest. "You know, I intended to help the woman but I'm not certain that she was the one I ought to have helped anyway, Constable. She didn't bleed. She just stood there for a moment with the stake sticking out of her chest…she made these odd gasping sounds and then she slowly dissolved into ash, starting with her head and working all the way down to her toes. It was…so odd. Little by little she dissolved and crumbled into dust. Her clothes fell on top of the pile, of course, once there was…no body to fill them."

Ichabod stared at him in disbelief.

"I must have made a sound of some sort without realizing…the four of them turned to look at me then ran off and the boy forgot to pick this up. After they were gone I went over to where she'd been standing…I don't know what I thought I'd find besides a pile of ash."

"Did you find anything else?"

"No," he said, shaking his head for emphasis, "only the pile of ash with the clothes she'd been wearing and this wooden stake lying on top of it. You think I am mad."

"I don't believe I am qualified to judge your mental state, Mr. Leeds. But you must realize what it sounds like."

"Yes," he sighed. "Even to me when I speak of it."

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

"She had long teeth. Here." He opened his mouth and pointed, indicating the teeth on either side of his two front teeth. "They were like an animal's teeth. It was frightening. To be honest I was relieved to see her dissolve into a pile of ash."

"I see," Ichabod finally answered softly and closed his mouth, which had been hanging open.

Leeds sighed. "I suppose you think I'm lying after all."

"Is there more?"

"No, that's it."

He stood up and came out from behind the desk, beckoning for Leeds to accompany him.

"Where are we going?"

"I should like to see the place where this happened, particularly this pile of ash with clothing. I'm going to Frankfort Street with you. Hopefully it's still there."

"Hopefully," Leeds muttered.

They never made it anywhere near Frankfort Street. When they turned onto Coenties Slip, the same place he'd met Stephen's friend Nicholas, they encountered another man in a black cape, this one tall. He stood alone at the far end of the slip; there was no victim anywhere in sight.

"There he is," Leeds whispered, almost in awe. "The same man I saw…"

As if he had heard Leeds' whisper the man turned to look at them in response; and a moment later he had disappeared. Ichabod stared disbelievingly at the empty space where the man had been. A small sound made him turn to his left then and he gasped when he saw that the man in the cape hadn't disappeared at all, but was standing to his left, about three feet away. Ichabod blinked and shook his head, feeling as if he'd just woken from a dream. There was no doubt that this man in the cape was the exact same man that he'd seen standing at the other end of the slip just seconds earlier. How could he have possibly moved that fast?

Recovering from his shock he realized that the man in the cape had grasped hold of Leeds and was intent on harming him, and he moved forward to stop him. The man turned his head and stared at him, and Ichabod froze. He might have been considered handsome were it not for the gleaming red eyes set in the deathly pale face. The man, if he was indeed a man, turned back to Leeds, who was staring vacantly with glazed-over eyes, appearing to be completely unaware of what was happening, unconscious with his eyes wide open. In that moment Ichabod instinctively understood what had happened to him in Grace Bartlett's parlor; and in the next moment, as the man opened his mouth to reveal two gleaming white protruding teeth and lowered his face toward Leeds' neck, he witnessed what she had been about to do to him. He knew now what Doctor Camden had seen, and he knew that James Leeds had been telling him the truth.

And then suddenly the caped man released his hold on Leeds and recoiled. Leeds crumpled to the ground in a heap. Voices speaking in words that he couldn't understand now surrounded him and Ichabod saw that several men had approached. All of them were dressed in black from head to foot. Some of them held crosses in their hands, others held garlands of pungent-smelling white bulbs. They formed a tight circle from which the caped man couldn't escape then one of the men got close enough to press his crucifix against the skin of the caped man's face, causing him to howl in pain. When the man removed the cross from the skin and drew back Ichabod could see that a smoking red mark in the shape of a cross had been left on the caped man's face.

The smallest one in the crowd darted toward the caped man rapidly then, holding a wooden stake in one hand. Unable to move Ichabod stood rooted in the same spot and stared wide-eyed at the lithe, wiry body dancing around the caped man with amazing agility, his movements balletic, acrobatic. The two men sparred for some time, the smaller one remaining just out of the caped man's reach, the caped man avoiding the stake that the smaller one tried to aim at him several times. Vaguely Ichabod wondered if he was watching Nicholas. He couldn't see the face, which was obscured by the large hood that covered his head, but the lean narrow body didn't seem to be that of a grown man. How did the boy know to come here all the way from Frankfort Street? Or was this another boy? Minutes later, just as it struck him that there was something about the body that was actually feminine, the hood slipped off as the small figure executed what appeared to be a flip in the air and revealed a different familiar face. He watched Ilona Vajda land softly on her feet like a cat, half-crouched, then spring up and jam the wooden stake straight into the caped man's chest.

There was no blood at all. The caped man made a few gasping sounds and then, consistent with what James Leeds had described at the Watch House not more than a quarter of an hour earlier, he seemed to disintegrate bit by bit into grey ash, head first, then neck, then torso, legs and finally his feet. What had once been a caped man was now a pile of ash covered by clothes and a wooden stake.

Ichabod fainted dead away.


	10. Chapter 10

_**24**__**th**__** May, 1804**_

The doorbell rang before dawn and Katrina rose from the bed with her heart in her throat, certain that this was the visit that she'd been dreading ever since Ichabod had been assigned to the night shift. The vision of Ichabod's departing back the previous evening was vivid in her mind, the feeling of grief that she'd had watching him go welled up inside of her again as she hurried downstairs.

Finding Ilona standing outside the front door was somewhat of a relief until she saw the other two figures waiting behind her, one of them holding a pair of boot-clad legs and the other holding a pair of arms all belonging to Ichabod. Ichabod's eyes were closed, his head lolled to one side, his face deathly pale in the moonlight.

"He has only fainted, Katrina," Ilona quickly reassured her, taking her by the arm. "He is unharmed."

Katrina's entire body was trembling and she was grateful for her friend's supportive arm. She beckoned to the two men to come in, immediately understanding what must have happened, and pointed them toward the parlor, catching a glimpse of Stephen standing at the bottom of the stairs out of the corner of her eye.

"What we have feared has come sooner rather than later, Stephen. Ichabod has seen them. Would you go up to Elizabeth's room and make sure she didn't wake up? If she's awake please stay with her and don't allow her to come downstairs."

He turned and scaled the stairs two at a time. Katrina hurried into the parlor after Ilona and the two men, shutting the door behind her. They had already removed Ichabod's uniform jacket and stretched him out on the sofa. She hurried over and took a seat on the edge of the sofa, removing his cravat and unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt from the neck down to allow him to breathe more easily.

"Poor Ichabod," she whispered, gazing down at his frighteningly pale visage.

Ilona quickly explained what had occurred. Katrina thanked her and the two men for bringing him safely home then escorted them to the door. She and Ilona embraced briefly before the three of them departed into the pre-dawn dimness.

When she returned to the parlor she discovered Ichabod beginning to stir. A soft moan escaped his lips. She sat on the edge of the sofa again and gently took his hand. His eyelids fluttered open; he drew in a deep breath then bolted up to sitting with a gasp, his eyes glazed, wild. He opened his mouth as if to speak but only a stream of unintelligible sounds came out. He seemed unable to form words.

Only with great effort did she manage to control and curb her own panic. She kept her voice even, speaking to him in soothing tones and desperately trying to calm him. With firm hands she encouraged him to lie down, coaxing him to settle into the pillows. But he struggled, unwilling to lie down, writhing frenziedly against her grasp, unable to keep still, continuing to rant hysterically. She suddenly grew uncertain of how aware of her presence he even was. Even when his wild-eyed gaze turned in her direction he seemed to be looking through her without seeing her.

"Oh dear God…!" were the first actual words he managed to utter.

"I know," she whispered, reaching out to grasp his shoulder again.

"You don't know! You couldn't possibly know!" Ichabod cried out wildly, eluding her grasp once more. "You weren't there!"

"Ichabod…"

"But I…I…saw it…" he sputtered weakly, then his eyes rolled and with a long sigh he sank back onto the sofa in a swoon.

A sob rose up in her throat and she burst into tears.

"Katrina?" Stephen had entered the parlor.

"Stephen, is Elizabeth…?"

"Anna's awake. I asked her to stay with Elizabeth and keep her away from the parlor." He approached the sofa and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "That way I can remain with you."

She cried out and turned to him, pulling him into an embrace. "Thank you."

"It will be alright," he soothed, hugging her. "This isn't the first time we've seen him like this. He came out of it when it happened in Sleepy Hollow. And he'll come out of it now. I know he will."

Katrina released him and nodded. Stephen was no doubt correct. And though Ichabod was still in a state of shock at least he had managed to respond to her sentence; even if it was only to insist that she didn't know.

"I'll help you bring him upstairs," he offered.

"Thank you," she murmured. She stood and moved to the other end of the sofa, removed his boots then they lifted him up and carried him upstairs to their bedroom.

"Would you go to the Watch House and tell the High Constable that he returned home ill this morning and will not be in tonight?" she asked when they'd stretched him out on the bed.

"Yes, I'll go now and leave word."

"You should wait until the sun is up."

"I'm protected," he reminded her, reaching down and pulling from under his shirt the crucifix that he wore on a heavy chain around his neck. "I have this and Nicholas gave me…I don't know what it is exactly. It's a small pouch with a powdered mixture of some sort to carry with me for more protection."

"The same powder Ilona used probably. It has garlic in it."

"Is that what the smell is?"

She laughed. "Yes. It certainly is pungent."

"It would be better if I went now. He ended his shift early and they may have already noticed that he is not…where he is supposed to be. The sooner I tell them…"

"You're right. Thank you, Stephen."

"At least tomorrow is Saturday and he won't have to be in for two nights after this."

He shut the door behind him as he left the bedroom and Katrina began to remove Ichabod's pants, his waistcoat and his fine white shirt. His waistcoat felt heavier than it should have and she realized that there was a book in the pocket. Even before she looked at it she realized that it was _A Compendium of Spells, Charms and Devices of the Spirit World_, the book that she'd given to him in Sleepy Hollow and which he continued to keep close to his heart. Despite her distress she smiled at that moment.

She left the pile of clothing on the chair in the room and went back to the bed, drawing the covers up around him and leaning over to kiss him tenderly. Then she removed her robe and climbed into bed beside him, slipping her arms around him and holding him close.

**oooOooo**

At about nine o'clock in the morning the doorbell rang again. Katrina sat up quietly and slipped out of bed, glancing at Ichabod who lay unmoving. The knock on the bedroom door came five minutes later, as she was dressing.

"Just a moment," she called out softly.

Standing in front of the mirror she hurriedly brushed and arranged her hair, then went to open the door. Stephen stood in the hallway.

"Doctor Camden is here to see Ichabod. He said it was important."

"Oh…yes. He's the one who has been working on this…case…with Ichabod…alright, I'll go and speak with him," she said, flustered. She glanced back into the room at Ichabod, who didn't look as if he'd wake up any time soon.

"Anna took Elizabeth shopping with her," Stephen told her. "Would you like me to sit in here with him while you're downstairs, just in case he wakes up?"

"Yes, that would…thank you, Stephen. I'd prefer that he not wake up alone. Is there any coffee by any chance?"

"It's keeping warm in the kitchen. I made a lot."

"Good."

She left him in their bedroom, sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, and went downstairs, stopping in the kitchen to pour the coffee into a large silver carafe. She set the carafe, two clean cups and saucers, a bowl of sugar and a small pitcher of cream on a tray and carried it to the parlor where Doctor Camden waited. The first thing she noticed was the ugly bruise on his left cheek. The next thing she noticed was that he was quite young-looking, with intelligent, piercing eyes and a kind face.

"Good morning," she greeted him, carrying the tray over to the low coffee table and setting it down. "I'm Katrina Crane."

Suppressing an expression of surprise he stepped toward her and held out his hand, introducing himself as Doctor Peter Camden. She shook his hand then sat down before the coffee table, gesturing for him to have a seat in the chair opposite her.

"How do you take your coffee?" she asked, picking up the carafe and taking one of the cups and saucers.

"Two lumps of sugar, no cream. Thank you. I… Forgive me for my surprise…I did not expect to be served by the lady of the house."

Katrina relaxed and smiled at him warmly. "It's been a rather chaotic morning, since very early. Today Anna is kindly adding babysitting to the other tasks she does. So I am filling in where I can."

She spooned the sugar into his cup, stirred it and handed it to him then went about pouring a badly-needed cup for herself.

"Stephen said that you had something important to discuss with Ichabod," she said after she had taken several sips of coffee. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid he returned from work unwell early this morning and he cannot see you right now. I regret that you made the trip here for nothing. Perhaps I can pass along a message to him and when he's feeling better he can contact you to arrange another meeting."

"He is unwell, you say?"

"Yes."

The physician looked troubled. "I was with him yesterday afternoon and I was quite concerned about him then. Perhaps I should check on him…"

"That won't be necessary, Doctor Camden. But thank you…"

"Lady Crane, I don't wish to alarm you but many of the victims of this epidemic have very specific wounds and I'd like to…"

"Yes, I know about the wounds. Ichabod does not have them. I've confirmed that."

"Oh," he replied, looking somewhat taken aback. "Good."

He picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee, studying her quietly.

"Ichabod told me that something happened in Grace Bartlett's home yesterday, something that he had no awareness of, that he has no memory of. He said that you were going to explain."

"That is why I'm here," he replied with a nod. "And there is something else that I need to…"

"Will you explain it to me?"

"I...honestly I don't know that I should."

"You don't wish to upset me. I appreciate that but I assure you that even if what you say does upset me I will be alright. Certainly I will be no worse off. Ichabod was terribly disturbed when he arrived home in the cab with you yesterday, and his mood did not improve as the evening went on. In fact he grew more agitated and out of sorts as the hours passed. So, you see, Doctor, I am already upset and worried about him. If I can learn what happened at least I won't be in the dark, too."

Doctor Camden set his cup and saucer down on the table. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, raked his fingers through his hair, clearly still worried about the impact his words would have and at a loss as to how to begin. She decided to aid him.

"There is a theory that the wounds are bite marks."

"Did your husband mention that to you?" he exclaimed.

She nodded, though that wasn't exactly true. She simply wanted to make him aware that she knew more than he realized. "Bite marks from a parasite."

"Yes, that is my theory. Not wishing to frighten you…"

"I've already seen these parasites. You will not frighten me by talking about them."

He stared at her incredulously. "I see. Very well, then, I have seen them, too. I saw Grace Bartlett, who is one of them, as outrageous as that seems. I've known her for a very long time. It never in a million years occurred to me that she would be something other than…well, a lovely young woman who happened to move in some of the same social circles that I do. She was going to kill your husband in her parlor, but I arrived at the house and entered the parlor in time to prevent it. I distracted her before she could bite him."

Katrina bit her lip and sank back in her seat, nodding. "I knew…something…something like that had happened."

"I hope I haven't distressed you too much."

"It was not unexpected."

"Well, I am sorry if I have."

"Yesterday afternoon I checked Ichabod's neck and the rest of his body while he was sleeping because I was afraid…his clothing was in such disarray when he got out of the cab."

"I checked him as well, in the cab. He was clear."

"They...I know that they bite their…victims'…necks so that they can drink the blood. But…the state that Ichabod was in yesterday, his mood…and based on some of what he said and the fact that he has no memory…it occurred to me that perhaps he'd somehow been attacked mentally."

Doctor Camden nodded. "He looked as if he was under some sort of spell. I suppose that one could say it was an attack on his mind. There is a belief that some predators can mesmerize their prey. Some scientists say snakes do this. These creatures that we're encountering likely, in my opinion, have this ability to somehow mesmerize and incapacitate their prey. Yes, Grace Bartlett did this sort of thing to your husband. When I walked into the parlor he was entranced, unaware of what was happening. That is why he has no memory of her attempting to kill him. As far as the appearance of his clothing, she removed his cravat and unbuttoned his coat and shirt in order to bare his neck. He was unaware of that, too. He tried to rearrange himself before he left the cab…"

"Thank you," she said softly, feeling an odd sense of relief. "It is much better to know no matter how disturbing…thank you for telling me."

"If I've unburdened you at all, I'm glad."

They were silent for a time and Katrina finished drinking her coffee. She refilled his cup then poured another cup for herself.

Then he began to chuckle softly, suddenly. She looked at him in confusion.

"I suspect you know much more about this than I do, Lady Crane, and more than your husband. Last time I spoke with Constable Crane he was not completely convinced that this was a blood-drinking parasite. I'm surprised that he would even repeat this theory to you, since he didn't believe it."

"He didn't repeat it. He didn't speak of it at all. As I said, I've already seen them. Although…Ichabod doesn't know that yet…I have not had the chance to tell him. I have a friend who is…she knows about these beings and informed me about the details. She calls them _kalandornô_. It's a Magyar word. Vampire is the closest word I can come up with in English."

"Magyar?" he repeated.

"Yes. I'm not familiar with where she is from…"

"Hungary."

"What?"

"Magyar is the Hungarian word for Hungarian. Your friend is Hungarian."

"Do you speak the language?" Katrina exclaimed, astonished.

"No, but I'm familiar with some Hungarian words. Such as the word Magyar," he laughed. "My father and my maternal grandfather both…conducted business…in the Kingdom of Hungary. I was born here in New York but I went with my parents several times when they returned to Europe to visit."

"Do you still go back?"

"I don't care for boats, and it is a long journey over the ocean each way. As much as I enjoyed Europe very much I despised the voyage itself. It would take a lot to convince me to suffer that trip again, even in one direction. Besides, my grandparents and parents have passed away and their Hungarian friends and colleagues were their friends and colleagues, not mine."

"What business were they in?"

"To be honest it was never made clear to me. I have no idea."

Katrina stared at him wide-eyed, wondering how someone could have no idea what members of their own family did to earn a living.

"You find that strange. But my family was that way…they were very secretive. Whatever my father did he earned enough money to provide for my education, all the way through medical school. And he chose to forego one of his…business…trips so that he could attend my graduation. He was very proud of me."

"I cannot imagine that he wouldn't be."

He smiled warmly at her.

"Your parents were from England?"

"Peter Camden Senior, my father, was. My mother was Teresa Vaccaro from Napoli…Naples. My father traveled all over Europe. At some point he went to Naples to do business with my grandfather and met my mother. He fell in love with both her and her country, and married both. I don't think he ever went back to England again. And when we journeyed across the ocean it was to return to Naples, my mother's home and my father's adopted home. I've never been to England. Naples was always where we settled for the long term, and we would travel to other places from there."

Katrina's curiosity was piqued. "I don't suppose you know what made them decide to move here. It seems to me that they would have wanted to remain in Naples."

"No, I don't know. That was as much a secret as everything else."

"Did you visit Hungary a lot?"

"Both my father and grandfather adored Hungary and the Hungarian people. And there was much about the Kingdom of Naples that their Hungarian friends appreciated as well. I don't know nearly as much about Hungary as my father and grandfather but I did have the opportunity to visit a few times. It's quite lovely."

"Do you speak…?"

"Neapolitan, yes. My mother spoke it to me all the time, when we were alone. We didn't make it known generally. After all I was an American boy, born in the New World. But my mother wanted me to have a connection to that part of my heritage, so she made sure I had it."

"That's wonderful. And it meant that you could speak with your grandparents when you went to visit."

"My grandfather spoke several languages, including English, so I could have spoken to him anyway. But I'm grateful to my mother for giving me the language…and the food too, of course. I shall have to invite your family to dinner some time. Anthony is a wonderful cook, who continues to prepare Neapolitan dishes for me all the time. He worked for my mother's family and she insisted on keeping him in our employ when she and my father came to America."

"Thank you. That would be lovely. Perhaps Anthony would be willing to teach me some recipes…if we like the food."

"Neapolitan food is delicious, and I will be amazed and a little bit disappointed if you don't like it."

She smiled at him.

"Perhaps I can speak with your Hungarian friend too. You mentioned that she knows quite a bit about these creatures. I am involved in your husband's investigation, after all. I should like to know as much about what I am dealing with as possible."

"Yes. You and Ichabod should both speak with her at this point."

"How did she come to know so much about them?"

"That is a long and somewhat hard to explain story, which perhaps she should tell you herself."

"Oh. I see," he finally said after a long pause. "I should definitely like to speak with her then."

"If you and Ichabod do meet with Ilona to discuss it I would very much like to participate."

They finished their coffee and Katrina walked with him to the door. He offered his hand again and she shook it.

"Please contact me at the Columbia College of Medicine if your husband needs any medical attention. I shall come immediately."

"I will. Thank you. And I'm certain Ichabod will contact you himself as soon as he is well to arrange another meeting. It was a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Camden."

"The pleasure was mine, Lady Crane. I enjoyed talking with you. And I thank you for the coffee."

**oooOooo**

After lunch Katrina went upstairs to rest, tired after having risen so early that day. When later that afternoon Ichabod's eyes finally fluttered open and he drifted awake she was lying next to him, watching him with apprehension. But he didn't jerk or cry out or begin to rant. He lay there quietly, staring at her.

"Katrina?" he finally murmured softly.

She nearly burst into tears. "Ichabod. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I…" He paused. "How long have I been…?"

"Since early this morning," she replied, reaching out and gently placing a hand on his arm.

"I remember waking briefly in the parlor…forgive me…I have no idea what I said to you…"

"You were simply trying to explain what you saw, with difficulty. You did not attack or insult me, if that is what you are worried about."

Ichabod fell silent again and his eyes became distant. Katrina stroked his arm lightly, saying nothing, allowing him the time and space to remember and recover.

"Katrina," he said after some time. "I don't know if I was…I thought I saw Ilona Vajda last night."

Katrina nodded. "You did. She brought you home. Two of her friends were with her…they carried you."

"I…see. Who is she? I mean, who is she really? I've never in my life seen…" He trailed off and shook his head. "Katrina, if I told you what I saw…"

"I will believe you, Ichabod."

His eyes met hers. "Yes," he murmured. "Of that I have no doubt. It is more that you will say I told you so…you certainly have every right to…"

"No, I will say no such thing to you."

"I'm a fool. I should have listened to you," he lamented. "And I shouldn't have dismissed Ilona Vajda or her explanation. She is your friend and it was rude for me to be so disparaging toward her."

She raised herself up on an elbow and leaned over, kissing him tenderly on the lips. He reached up and stroked her cheek gently, wiping away a tear that she didn't realize had spilled.

"You're crying."

"I'm relieved that you're alright, that's all."

He opened his arms, beckoning, and she settled down into his embrace, resting her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. His arms tightened around her. She rested a hand on his stomach.

"I can only imagine the state I was in…" he said with a melancholy sigh. "I hope…did Elizabeth see me?"

"No. We kept her busy. She will be very happy to see her Papa at dinner, though, if you feel well enough to join us."

"Yes, of course."

"I sent Stephen to the Watch House very early to tell them you returned home ill this morning and that you would not be in tonight. I wasn't certain you would be well enough…and I think it would do you good to rest."

"Thank you. It would do me good to rest."

But she thought he sounded dejected. "Surely they cannot penalize you for being ill."

"No, I don't think they will. But that isn't what…I do not wish to give in to my fears. It would be so easy…to just never go out there again, especially at night."

"Ichabod," she began softly. She lifted her head, her gaze met his. "What you saw…what you experienced…was terrible and shocking. Of course you will need time to make sense of it, and to recover. But it will pass. You will face your fears, just as you did in Sleepy Hollow when you encountered something as shocking as this, and you will continue to do the work that you are determined to do."

"You speak as if you know what I saw."

"I do…" She averted her eyes then added quickly, "Ilona explained what happened when they brought you home."

When she raised her gaze to meet his again he was staring at her, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Hmm…I see. Why do I have the feeling that you know much more about all of this than I should like?"

"Doctor Camden was here this morning," Katrina told him, shifting the focus of the conversation.

He groaned and muttered an oath.

"What is it? He seems to be a very nice man."

"Yes, he is. He was going to explain what happened to me…but now that has been delayed again. Although…after what I saw last night I've a feeling I know what the explanation will be anyway."

"I told him that you would contact him as soon as you are feeling well. I'm certain you can make another appointment very soon. When I told him you were ill he offered to look after you, so he may even be available this evening."

"As soon as I get out of bed I shall write to him."

"He likes you. And he has a lot of respect for you."

"You ascertained all of that when he came to the door this morning?"

"I thought it only right that I serve him coffee after he made the trip. We talked for a little while."

A look of dismay flickered across his face. "Did he…say anything?"

"About what?" she asked.

"I…" Ichabod trailed off and shook his head, shifting out from under her and raising himself up to sitting. "Nothing. Never mind, it is not important. It must be nearly time for dinner. I'm going to write to Doctor Camden now."

Katrina sat up beside him and reached out to touch his shoulder. He turned to her.

"We shall continue our prior conversation afterward, my love," he chided, his tone both stern and affectionate, and he brushed her nose with the tip of his index finger for emphasis. "You must know that I am well aware that whenever you change the subject in that way it is because you are deliberately trying to distract me. Perhaps you forgot."

"I haven't forgotten," she sighed. "I simply didn't want to distress you further."

"You've seen them," he stated.

"Yes."

He studied her intently for a few moments. "If I had to venture a guess it was on the night that Stephen found you and Ilona Vajda putting protection on the house at three o'clock in the morning."

She leaned over and threw her arms around his neck. "Ichabod, I…it's not that I…"

"I know," he said very softly, slipping his arms around her. "You were trying to tell me when I came home that morning and I wouldn't let you. I wasn't…I didn't know what you were going to say to me then but I knew it was something that I wasn't ready to hear yet." He buried his face in her shoulder then and groaned. "Oh, Katrina, everything feels as if it is completely out of my control. I feel...awful."

Katrina held him tightly. Grace Bartlett had attempted to do something to Ichabod, to his body, without his permission, without his awareness. And she'd invaded his mind. She wished she could explain to him that she understood how terribly violated he must be feeling; but that would mean revealing to him that Doctor Camden had already recounted the incident to her. He would only feel more distressed and betrayed.

"Ichabod, I know that these past few days have been dismal." She kissed his brow and stroked his hair tenderly. "But you don't have to cope with everything at once, and you don't have to do so alone."

**oooOooo**

"We have much to discuss, Constable Crane," Doctor Camden began when they were settled at the coffee table in the parlor and Anna had left, shutting the doors behind her. He picked up his cup and saucer and took a sip of coffee before continuing. "But before I start I must disclose something to you. When I came here this morning to see you as planned your wife served me coffee and remained to speak with me. She was quite worried about you and wished for me to tell her what happened to you yesterday."

Ichabod flinched inwardly. "Yes, I was afraid of that. And…you told her."

"At first I resisted," he said earnestly. He paused and averted his gaze for a minute. Then he looked Ichabod in the eye and admitted, "She convinced me otherwise."

"That is not surprising," he replied with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, Constable. She was extremely distressed over you and she insisted that not knowing was making it worse. I…I wanted to ease her mind…"

He sighed again. "I do wish you had told me first." He paused and stared pensively into his cup of coffee for a few moments, frowning. After some time he looked up and addressed the doctor again. "But, it no longer matters, as it happens. During my shift I had the misfortune of encountering one of these creatures. I saw it attack the man who was with me. And I realize exactly what happened to me in Grace Bartlett's parlor. What I don't understand is how she managed to fail."

"What do you mean?"

He took several sips of coffee, stalling.

"This will not be easy for me, Doctor Camden," he said finally, but began to explain everything that occurred after he left the Watch House with James Leeds in the middle of the night.

"When I saw the way this creature had entranced Mr. Leeds I understood that this is what Grace Bartlett had likely done to me," he told him after concluding his story. "But…it was a matter of moments. He was at the other end of the block when we turned onto Coenties Slip, and then literally a second later he was three feet away from me and he had already stupefied Mr. Leeds."

"And the others appeared just as he was about to bite Mr. Leeds, the same way I entered the parlor just before Grace Bartlett was going to bite you."

"Yes. But…this was a matter of seconds. Although I…I was unaware of much of what was happening I do know that I was with Grace Bartlett, alone with her, for far longer than merely seconds. Why did it take her so long? How is it that she didn't get round to even attempting to bite my neck until much later, when you finally arrived? Do you see my point? The pace at which she operated was infinitely slower. Why?"

"That…is an interesting question, Constable, and one I'm afraid I cannot answer. Perhaps the friend that your wife mentioned could provide insight. It could be a matter of different capabilities between individual creatures, or perhaps it is simply the fact that she is female. But, Grace Bartlett had the same long pointed teeth that you describe, fangs that are clearly used to make the type of puncture wounds we've been seeing and to draw out the victims' blood. My guess is that these creatures are able to keep these fangs receded in their mouths until they need to use them, similar to the way cats can bare and retract their claws. It would explain why no one ever noticed anything out of the ordinary about her. But her specialized teeth were bared when I walked into the parlor."

"Katrina told you about Ilona Vajda?"

"She didn't tell me her name, but yes, she did say that she had a friend who knew a lot about these creatures, and who could perhaps provide information. I should like to speak with her, if she would be willing. Lady Crane also seems to know quite a bit about it…"

"Unfortunately." He paused, thinking of the discussion he and Katrina had after dinner. "Ilona Vajda, according to Katrina, calls herself a huntress. She is the one that killed the creature I saw. She specifically hunts these…Katrina refers to them as vampires."

"Apparently the word her friend uses is _kalandornô_."

Ichabod stared at him. "I see that the two of you spoke quite a bit."

"We spoke a little bit about them. She told me that she had already seen them."

"Well then, we shall have to meet with Miss Vajda together. And with Katrina, who will insist on being present," he sighed.

"So Miss Vajda…this entire group of people roams the streets at night looking for these creatures and destroying them? Perhaps we have nothing to contribute and it would be better if we let these hunters simply do their job."

"I am certain that we still have much to contribute, Doctor Camden. The culprits are still living beings to some degree, beings with bodies that need sustenance and that can be killed. With your medical and scientific knowledge you will no doubt provide much-needed insight. And I…I am still dealing with murders, though the assassins are a different type of creature. And that is…" he trailed off.

"Your expertise," Doctor Camden finished for him.

He nodded. "Besides, I am not certain that it is wise to allow an independent group of lawless so-called hunters to roam about the streets freely. Their targets are these creatures, but what if they accidently kill an innocent citizen? They are operating within the terms of their own…self-defined rules and laws. And problems could arise in a situation like that."

"You told me the other day about a young boy that was about to plunge a wooden stake into one of the bodies. I suppose he is one of them too?"

"Nicholas Székely," Ichabod said with a nod. "Miss Vajda is friends with his family."

"Székely," he repeated curiously. "Interesting."

"They live a few doors away. Our boy Stephen is friends with Nicholas. Do you know them?"

"No, but the Székelys are a people of Transylvania."

"Do you mean they are a famous family?"

"Not just a family, a people. The way the French or the Dutch or the Turks are a people. They were warriors who defended the eastern borders of the Kingdom of Hungary against the Ottomans a few hundred years or so ago. This family could be descendants of those people. It is very likely, in fact. The Székelys were excellent warriors, considered among the best."

"Miss Vajda told us that both she and the Székely family are from a place called Erdély."

Doctor Camden smiled. "Erdély is what the Hungarians call Transylvania."

"How is it that you know so much about it?"

"Lady Crane did not tell you about our conversation?"

Ichabod shook his head. "She said very little about it. I am guessing that she did not want to reveal to me that you had already told her about my…experience in Grace Bartlett's parlor."

He listened fascinated as Doctor Camden told him of his travels all over Europe with his English father and Neapolitan mother, about Hungary and about Transylvania, the place where Ilona and her friends came from. Transylvania was a region that had been considered a part of the Kingdom of Hungary for a long time, but there were various groups of people living there - Vlachs, Romanians, Hungarians including the Hungarian Székelys, Saxons, many others. There was apparently much tension between them and a large number of macabre stories of the place existed.

"Yes, Miss Vajda already told us one of those macabre stories," Ichabod told him. "A bizarre story about a countess who tortured people and drank their blood…"

"Countess Zsófia. I know her story. She was tried for her crimes, found guilty and sentenced to death. But apparently the history did not end when she was put to death. There is extensive folklore that says that she continued to rise from the grave, to continue to feed on the blood of the living. People claimed to have seen her roaming about after she died. I must say I never credited that part of it as anything more than local myth. However, now I cannot help but see the similarities to the phenomena we're seeing here in New York. I suppose that is why Miss Vajda shared such a gruesome history with you."

Ichabod nodded. "She immediately made the connection and wanted to inform me."

Doctor Camden's eye started to twitch and he suddenly seemed to be having difficulty sitting still. He leaned forward and set his cup and saucer down on the tray that Anna had left on the table. "Perhaps that was the local people's way of explaining the origin of these creatures. And Countess Zsófia was one of them."

"That is a possibility. At any rate I do not believe that Countess Zsófia herself has come to New York. And if she has, I am quite certain that she and the others who may have accompanied her weren't instantly transplanted all the way from Transylvania to New York."

"No, they would have had to travel here. We are speaking of parasites who look human, who are able to blend in with humans. And they seem to move around in the same manner as we do, though they have the ability to do so much faster from what you saw last night. No doubt they would have had to come here by boat and they would have needed to eat. With nowhere to go in search of food they would have likely fed on the other passengers around them. Someone might have noticed that something was wrong."

"If there were survivors from the journey," Ichabod pointed out. "Still, it may be worthwhile to investigate passenger manifests of ships arriving here in the past year. Perhaps there were an unusual number of deaths on a particular journey, which were simply dismissed as an epidemic on the ship. People do grow ill on sea journeys. Though, I wonder what provoked them to come here."

"Well, it's plausible that these creatures all originated from one specific place, possibly Transylvania, and migrated here because their food supply ran out. Though why they chose to cross an ocean to come here is beyond me. They had the entire continent of Europe, after all."

"The extensive lore about the countess has been passed down for hundreds of years, and includes methods to protect oneself from their attacks as well as ways to kill them. I now know that at least one of those methods for killing them is effective. Perhaps these creatures found that they were suddenly living in a place where they could no longer feed on their prey because their prey had figured out how to protect themselves. More than that, they realized that they now had predators, for there were suddenly people like Miss Vajda and the Székelys who knew how to kill them and were hunting them."

"Maybe they felt that another part of Europe wasn't far enough away. But of course now Miss Vajda and the Székelys have followed them here anyway."

"Yes."

Ichabod absentmindedly took a sip of his coffee, noticed it had grown cold, set the cup and saucer down on the table and leaned back.

"No," he said suddenly, remembering. "I forgot that Miss Vajda did not come here directly from Transylvania. She lived in Rhode Island for a few years before she came to New York."

"It would actually be interesting to study Miss Vajda's family tree. You see, the name Vajda is the Hungarian variation of voivode, which means leader, and is a title of the Transylvanian barons. In Magyar, or Hungarian, they would say _erdélyi vajda_. I wonder if she is a descendant of Transylvanian nobility. Perhaps she is even a descendant of the countess herself. That would throw an interesting light on the particular…profession…she has chosen."

"I see," Ichabod replied, staring at him in wonder. "Doctor Camden, in addition to quite a bit of knowledge about the region you seem to have an extensive talent for languages. How many do you speak?"

"I'm fluent in Neapolitan as well as English. And of course when one travels one picks up at least a little of the language of the place. I've picked up some French, some German. And some Hungarian, but that is a very difficult language. I do find languages fascinating."

They both fell silent then. Doctor Camden picked up his cup and saucer again, took a sip, winced then set the cup and saucer back down. Ichabod noticed and leaned forward, picking up the carafe that Anna had left. He refilled both of their cups with hot coffee then set the carafe down.

"Thank you." Doctor Camden spooned sugar into his cup and stirred. "Grace Bartlett claims that she saw her fiancé after he died. And in fact on that evening that I first discovered the wounds on her neck there were several other people at the same party claiming to have seen their dead loved ones as well, outside of their windows."

"Yes, I…you wrote to me of it. I had forgotten. The past few days have been quite confusing and distressing."

"If we were to accept that people really did see the countess and her victims after they died because they actually rose from the grave, and if we were to accept that when the countess killed her victims she passed on her blood lust, which survived even after her death; if we were to therefore accept that all these things can be true then isn't it possible that Grace Bartlett _was_ human but was somehow changed when her fiancé visited her after his death? Perhaps he is the one who bit her. She didn't die from the wounds immediately but she was somehow changed."

"So, her fiancé was bitten, died and turned into one of these creatures. Then he returned from the grave, bit her and changed her."

"Perhaps it is their way of reproducing."

"Rather than bearing children…interesting."

"It would also explain the disappearing bodies," Doctor Camden added with a shudder. "That first woman we operated on disappeared and the very next day two doctors were killed at the school."

"You mean that they are literally getting up and walking away."

"That prospect is terrifying to me, I must say."

"To me as well," Ichabod sighed. He picked up his cup and saucer. "You know," he began again thoughtfully after taking a few sips, "I drew a sketch of one of the victims, a young boy that was discovered by two other constables yesterday morning. Perhaps we ought to make a habit of sketching the victims' faces."

"May I see the sketch that you drew?"

"Certainly," he replied, setting his cup and saucer on the table again then rising to his feet. "I shall be back in a moment."

Both Stephen and Katrina were in the sitting room when he entered.

"Is Doctor Camden gone?"

He shook his head. "There is a sketch I drew in my ledger that he asked to see."

"I put your ledger in the desk drawer earlier."

"Thank you," he said, retrieving it. He paused on his way out and turned back. "Katrina, I…both Doctor Camden and I feel that it would be helpful for us to meet with Miss Vajda."

"Would you like me to write to her?"

"Yes. Thank you. I would do it, but it is probably better coming from you. Perhaps this weekend…sooner would be better than later…"

"Of course," she replied. "I'll send a message to her now and extend an invitation for tomorrow."

Ichabod returned to the parlor and showed Doctor Camden the sketch that he had drawn of the young boy that Constables White and Thompson brought to the Watch House the previous morning.

"Ah, yes," he said, staring at the page. "They brought him in yesterday evening. This is a wonderful likeness, Constable Crane."

"Yesterday evening? The body was brought to the Watch House early yesterday morning."

"Well, it was nearly seven o'clock in the evening when they arrived. The results of the examination were the same, including the absence of _livor mortis_, even after all those hours."

"As I expected," Ichabod replied absently, preoccupied and wondering why Constables White and Thompson had waited nearly twelve hours to bring the body to the medical school. He shook his head slowly. "I don't understand why they waited so long before bringing the body to you. When I returned to the Watch House at eight o'clock in the morning yesterday they were there already, with the body. They ought to have brought it to you within the hour, and yet it was nearly seven o'clock in the evening…do you know who brought it?"

Doctor Camden shook his head. "I didn't see them. Doctor Jessop met whoever brought it to the school and the body was then brought to me. Going forward I will sketch the faces. I suppose the other next step is to meet with your wife's friend, Miss Vajda."

"Yes, Katrina is writing to her now. Hopefully we'll be able to meet this weekend. I shall contact you as soon as we hear from her."

"My schedule is flexible this weekend."

"Alright, I will send a message noting the day and time." Ichabod leaned back in his chair and stared into space for a time, troubled. He shook his head again. "I still cannot reconcile the long delay in them bringing that body to the medical school."


End file.
